Over the Threshold
by Meowser Clancy
Summary: 1910 Convenient Marriage AU. When Tom Gordon asks James Clancy to marry his wayward daughter, none of them fully understand what they're getting into. COMPLETE but I'll eventually add an epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

James Clancy wasn't the richest man in the city of New York. Nor was he the best known, or the handsomest.

But in certain circles, he was definitely a favorite. He was easygoing, and you could call him a true friend. His smile alone was enough to make a man—or woman—like him well enough because it was infectious, it was real and genuine enough to make you believe he truly took joy in being with you at this moment.

He worked hard at what he did, but still took some time at his club every day; what man didn't? What man didn't need to?

And he was self made without acting like the nouveau riche; he had no sisters to humiliate him by looking around for a husband for themselves.

He was all alone in the world; sometimes people would mention a brother, but it was always understood that a tragedy had happened to his family, one with no touch of scandal, just tears, so it never became a topic for the gossip chains.

At thirty, he was unmarried, but there was no gossip there either; he occasionally showed an interest in one of the debutantes, or even the ladies considered spinsters, or even the younger widows, and it just never went anywhere.

"He's searching for love," the women would scoff, occasionally trying to set their daughters on him, but it never quite worked; he wasn't the biggest catch and his politeness was somehow worse than more valuable catches rudeness. Because he would be polite and very considerate to you but at the same time, during all of that, you could just tell that nothing would come of it; that you could drop your handkerchief dozens of times and he would pick it up, every single time, and it would still mean nothing to him because he wasn't working for it. It was just his nature to help people, to be nice to them.

So this was the reason that Tom Gordon was finding him hard to gauge, why he'd been asking around for two weeks now as to what kind of man James Clancy really was, because he simply seemed too good to be true. If he wasn't married yet, did he have mistresses? No, and neither did he visit whore houses...of the male or female kind.

Did he have some sort of character flaw to cause mothers to keep their daughters from him? No, again. All women gladly said they'd marry their daughters off to him without a second thought but he wasn't interested.

What, Tom Gordon wondered, would capture James Clancy's interest?

And would it be his daughter, Melinda Gordon?

Because someone had to marry Melinda. She was getting far too out of hand; Tom had desperately been trying to find someone who could marry her for weeks now, and kept coming up short.

It wasn't just that she was nearly twenty-one, and still unmarried.

It wasn't just that she had, rather stubbornly, refused two marriage proposals already, before the men even dared to approach Tom himself.

It wasn't just that she was part of the women's liberation movement, that she was a 'suffragette' because honestly , other fathers and mothers had worked around their daughters being scandals in that regard.

It was because she claimed she could see, and talk to, the dead. It was because she kept on sneaking out of the house to speak to an abominable professor Richard Payne to get his advice. It was because whenever Tom's path collided with Richard, he could see the hunger in the other man's eyes when he looked at Melinda, and he could see her future with Richard should they happen to marry.

Poor as a mouse, looked at and examined like one of his projects. Tom had no trust that Richard could truly love Melinda, lust though he may after her beauty and...peculiar talents.

So these were the reasons leading to Tom just giving up on trying to figure James Clancy out and simply inviting him to talk one day, and why James Clancy was currently being shown into his study, looking tall and handsome; capable.

Tom remembered that James had gotten his start in the railroad business, just selling newspapers in the stations, and wondered how much of that he'd taken with him over the years.

"Hello," Tom greeted, rising and shaking James' hand; he was impressed by the other man's grip. "Tom Gordon."

"James Clancy," James replied, polite to the end, seating himself carefully on the other side of the desk .

"I'd like to get to know you better, James," Tom began. "I know of you, and I have to admit to not being able to yet get a feel for your character."

James smiled, a touch of confusion on his face. "Alright," he said. "I suspect that you've brought me here to decide if you want to do business with me."

"Exactly," Tom said, smiling a little.

"Then go ahead," James replied. "Though I wouldn't have thought that you'd need the services of a newspaper man."

"Well, that remains to be seen," Tom said agreeably and James nodded, smiling again.

"What do you want to know?" James wondered.

"Well, what everyone wants to know of any new acquaintance," Tom began. "Do you have any family living? Do you want your own?" He saw James startle at such questions and quickly continued. "Do you enjoy a cigar on a fine evening? Do you support women's suffrage?" At this, Tom laughed outright. "Do you enjoy what you do for a living?"

He steepled his hands, and then started up. "Let me offer you a drink," he began. "Loosen your tongue."

"I don't drink this early in the day, but thank you," James said, in the tone of someone who has said the same thing hundreds of times.

Tom settled back. "Well, any answers?"

James leaned back in his chair. "My own question first, if I may?"

Tom nodded.

"May I just ask if you ask everyone these questions upon getting to know them?" James wondered.

"No, and that's your only question," Tom said. "Now may I get some answers?"

James' eyes had narrowed; he was just looking at Tom, trying to figure him out, trying to decide if this was worth it. "My mother is still living," he began. "My father and brother passed on early and we...don't see each other as much as we perhaps should, but I put her up in a house in the country and I'm fine with things the way that they are. She's not very fond of the newspaper business; she wished I'd gone into medicine."

"Fair enough," Tom said.

"And she wants me to start my own family," James continued, eyes growing thoughtful, looking past Tom at the blooming garden outside the window. "I don't...I'm not ready for that yet."

"You have yet to sow your wild oats?" Tom wondered.

James smiled a little stiffly. "I have yet to determine if the noble institution is, in fact, worth it. I have written about and witnessed marriages fall apart; I have seen men like myself marry only to propagate children and, the full duration of the marriage, keep company with a mistress." He licked his lips. "I have yet to see the point of it unless both parties are committed and I have not found a woman to whom I feel I could...commit."

"Even fairer," Tom said. "But that would change. If you found the right one. If you found...the right reasons."

James just nodded. "Let me see," he said a moment later. "Do I enjoy a cigar? If offered one yes, but my frugal nature won't let me take up the habit for myself; it gets too expensive."

"Well said," Tom chuckled and pulled out a drawer in his desk. "Cigar?"

James shook his head.

"Do I support women's suffrage?" He said aloud. "I wouldn't say that I don't. A woman has little enough power in the world, might as well let her have more. In the newspaper business, sometimes I wonder if men aren't just ruining the country so why not let women have a chance to ruin it too—or perhaps better it?"

"But the movement itself is disrespectful," Tom said, forgetting himself. "The women are mostly young girls influenced by a few old spinsters who couldn't catch a man and so decided to get power instead. And why would you want a-a daughter or a sister...or even a wife involved in that nonsense?"

"Or a mother?" James said a bit coolly. "My mother is, in fact, an avid supporter of the liberation movement."

Tom settled back into his seat, disappointed with this development, but pushing past it. Surely this would only make it easier for Melinda to reconcile herself to the idea of marriage with James.

"And do I enjoy what I do for a living…" James trailed off. "Yes. I think so. It's a fast paced world and I haven't yet reached the time when it makes me tired." A frown appeared on his brow. "Not physically, anyway. Sometimes the state of the world makes me tired though, to think about it. To rue it."

"Yes," Tom said, drawing out the word. Sensitive. Well, he didn't like it, but perhaps Melinda would. "And a few other questions. What do you think about the whole talk of the...spirit world? Ouija boards, that kind of ridiculousness?"

James was very puzzled now. "It's not something I believe or disbelieve," he said carefully.

"And to someone who did believe…?" Tom trailed off rather delicately, further confounding his guest.

"It would depend on the someone and what they believed," James finally finished.

"I want to tell you about a girl," Tom said and saw an odd smile quirk at James' mouth; he'd finally figured out what the purpose of the visit was, and finally understood the line of questioning. "A girl who is heavily involved in the women's liberation movement, is going terribly fast towards the point of scandal and ruin, who says she doesn't wish to marry and is twenty-one and has refused two proposals so one might even believe her." He took in a breath. "She professes a faith in the spirit world; I don't know where she learned such nonsense but it's all she'll talk about anymore and she has taken up a very worrying habit of going to see the professor in charge of supernatural studies at Rockland University, which is, I believe, two hours out of the city; she takes the train there chaperoned and sees the professor unchaperoned, because my maids are not dependable and can be bribed, apparently, to let her be while she bothers him with nonsense questions."

He was getting closer to losing himself.

"What would you think of such a girl?" Tom finally barked, just the thought of his daughter giving him a very deep headache.

"I'd think that she was your daughter, sir," James said carefully and Tom burst out laughing, because the answer was very, very clever and not wrong at all.

"Too damn true," Tom said, settling back into his chair, pouring himself a glass of sherry because he needed to be level headed for this. "And what would you say if I asked you to marry her?"

"That without meeting her I couldn't possibly agree to anything," James said, a bit coolly, as if expecting the question; but Tom could see from James' posture that he hadn't expected the question at all, that his shoulders were back, as if expecting her to walk in at any moment. "What does she think of the idea?"

"She doesn't know," Tom muttered.

Jim surveyed the man in front of him; very much a harried father who only wanted what was 'best' for his progeny; he'd come across many a man like Tom Gordon but none had ever asked Jim to marry their daughter before.

He hesitated to pinpoint one reason why he disagreed to the match, not because they were numerous, but because he couldn't find one. For some inexplicable reason, this girl, the description Tom had given of her...sounded fascinating to him, made him sit straighter, wonder what she was like. Was she furious and ranting most of the time? Or was she, as he speculated, merely lonely, looking for love in any place she could find it, because in her father's home, she most definitely wasn't.

The spirit world. There had been a time when the very mention of that would start a yearning deep in Jim's heart, hoping that, yes, there was such a thing; that he could have one more chance to speak to his father, his brother. And even now, he so keenly understood that desire that it only made him want to meet her more.

And women's suffrage; again, that spoke to a woman looking to find validation in a world that would give her none; rights because her father allowed her nothing but his name and maybe a bit of money.

Those in and of themselves had Jim picturing an intelligent girl, one with just enough spirit to go and see a professor with questions she had; enough to attract at least two men enough to have them propose to her, and say no, but not enough to truly break away from her father, dare to live alone.

In the upper echelon, Tom Gordon's daughter would be considered by most to be the lucky one, but Jim knew that the path of a rich man's daughter was, perhaps, the narrowest of all to tread.

She probably wore glasses to read, and said no to the former proposals because she knew she wouldn't be properly loved, he considered, feeling a brotherly fondness for the girl, almost wanting to say yes to Tom Gordon right now, because he hated the thought of the deep unhappiness that living this life would bring most girls...women.

But still, sight unseen, he had no idea what the girl was truly like. He had no idea if this picture in his head was completely wrong; she could be the fire and brimstone that Tom was warning of and if she was, well, as much as Jim might understand her feelings, he couldn't very well say that he could properly help her. She'd need more than husband then, and with Jim working so long and hard each week, simple freedom from her father wouldn't be enough to free her spirit.

Tom was considering him. "You're saying if you meet her, you'll marry her?"

"I didn't say that," Jim said swiftly, but Tom was speaking over him.

"She's not a bad looking thing," he said. "Better than most suffragettes, which is the most infuriating part. I daresay she also wants a husband or she wouldn't be going to that idiot professor each week."

"You're saying she has feelings for him?" Jim managed to get a word in between Tom's.

"I'm saying that it's over my dead body that I'll allow her to elope with him," Tom said, a manic gleam in his eyes.

Which didn't quite answer Jim's question.

"When can we meet?" Jim asked.

"Give me your word," Tom said. "That you'll marry her."

And no, he was not a fool.

Jim stood up, ready to go. "As much as I hate to say it, this is farewell."

"Wait," Tom said. "She'll be back soon and I told my butler to show her into the study when she arrived."

And Jim still wasn't a fool.

"Just be fair," Tom said. "Her name is Melinda."

He was prepared to go, but as he took his gloves and hat, he heard a scuffle; turning he faced the door with Tom standing up with him to greet whoever was coming in.

The door was flung open and Melinda walked in, and she was both everything and nothing like Jim had expected.

Notes:

Next time:

"I made an agreement," Mr. Clancy said. "For the good of all involved."


	2. Chapter 2

Notes:

I decided that it would be fun to add a 'Next time' for this story, since I have such a clear idea of where I'm going, and now I get to wind everyone up just a bit more :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

This new spirit was giving her more trouble than usual. Not that they weren't all a huge mess, ones which only made her complicated life even more frenzied.

Melinda Gordon got into the carriage her maid had hailed, and they sat in silence as it carried them home from the train station.

"I'm going to get in trouble," Andrea said softly. "If I keep helping you like this. Your father has warned me numerous times to not let you do this again."

Melinda raised clear brown eyes to meet Andrea's. "If you didn't go with me, I would go alone, and I think my father knows me well enough to realize that by now. Your job is not in danger."

Andrea scoffed, turning back to the window. "Was it worth it?" She asked. "Seeing your professor?"

The words were loaded and both women knew it.

"Not today," Melinda sighed.

Richard looked at her so oddly sometimes, like he still didn't quite believe her. And she didn't think that he did. Which she understood. Sometimes she didn't want to believe herself, but, unlike him, she didn't have a choice. Not since her grandmother had asked her to carry on her work as a mediator. Not since her grandmother had visited her after her own death, to beg Melinda to be strong and persevere, because people needed Melinda's gift.

She couldn't and wouldn't ever go back on the promise she'd made that day, grief in her heart so strong, but knowing that most people didn't have the chance that she'd had in that moment: to say goodbye to her already dead, beloved grandmother.

This man though, the spirit visiting her lately, was so troubled. Melinda wasn't sure how to help him, wasn't sure why he appeared in such odd circumstances, why she was dreaming more with him, why it was so disjointed and even violent.

She didn't like it.

His brow had creased when she told him, something that didn't go away when she finished speaking. "I feel like he's trying to tell me how he died," she'd finished. "But none of it makes sense. It's a jungle. I'm running through a jungle and then life just stops."

Richard hadn't been able to help; it was the first time he'd had nothing to offer. He'd come over though, placed a hand on her shoulder as she was about to leave. "Let me know if I can ever assist you in a different sort of matter," he said. "Not involving ghosts. I would...be glad to help, Miss Gordon."

The words hadn't made sense to her; she'd begun to see him a few months ago when a ghost was out of her depth, and she'd just needed someone who studied this sort of thing. She'd found him after careful questions poised to some of her father's friends; who else could she ask?

And then she'd taken the train ride to see him, Andrea accompanying her, both of them feeling trepidation to be going to this strange man's office, but he had turned out to be harmless; next time Melinda went, she left Andrea in town.

She was certainly a bit of an odd sight at the college, dressed as she was, obviously a rich young woman, and what could a woman such as her have to do with Professor Payne?

She knew that there were rumors. But as long as there were ghosts in her life, there would be rumors. She had to accept that as a fact and move on.

The carriage stopped in front of Melinda's house and the two women hurried out as soon as the driver opened the door; Melinda hurried up the steps to the house and wondered if her father had noticed her absence; but surely not, why would he even be home?

But there was Gabriel, opening the door and hiking an eyebrow at her. "Your father wants you in the study," he said, not being a proper butler, but he'd never cared about that with her and Melinda was ever so grateful.

She cursed under her breath, cursing that he was home, that he'd caught her so abysmally last time, that the result had been so terrible; how she'd had to tell him everything and how he'd almost forbade her from ever seeing Richard again.

But it wasn't like that. He thought she had feelings for Richard, but that was only because Melinda had tried so hard to skate over the real reason for her visits: ghosts. Which her father refused to admit existed, even though it was something that Melinda had talked about since she was a girl; she wasn't going to outgrow it simply because he told her to. She couldn't, plain and simple. It didn't work that way.

It had been a choice, though. Tell him the bare truth and have him be even angrier or fudge a few things and let him think she had met Richard at a party and fell for the man.

Which most definitely had not happened.

"Why?" She asked, as Andrea just rolled her eyes and walked to the servants entrance, abandoning Melinda.

She deserved it, but still .

"I believe he's finally done it," Gabriel said. "Gone out and found you a husband, anything to keep you away from that Professor Payne."

Her eyes widened, because yes , her father had said something to that effect last month, but she'd never thought he'd go through with it. And besides, the idea of her marrying Richard was so beyond ridiculous...oh god, she should have thought her tales last month all the way through.

"Who is he?" Melinda wondered. "Why the devil…"

Gabriel handed her the man's card.

 **James Clancy**

"He made his money in the newspaper business," Gabriel said. "He must be thirty by now."

"What kind of troll is he?" Melinda said, missing the flash of amusement in Gabriel's eyes as he wound her up, quite deliberately. "That he has to buy a wife?"

Gabriel just shrugged, a smile pulling at his mouth that Melinda still missed.

"They're in there, right now," Melinda said, inhaling. "And my father told you to show me there as soon as I arrived?"

"Most definitely, at the risk of losing my job," Gabriel said, shrugging when Melinda huffed.

She walked towards her father's study, irritation in every step, not letting Gabriel beat her there.

"I have to announce you," Gabriel said.

"I have no intention of giving this old troll a good impression of me," Melinda said. "Maybe if I'm horrid enough he'll lose interest."

"Melinda," Gabriel said, too panicked to even use the proper Miss Gordon. "He isn't—"

She arched her eyebrow at him, perhaps looking a tad too much like her father for a brief moment; Gabriel fell back and Melinda reached for the door handle.

It was simple. She just had to act like her father's worst envisioning of her: militant suffragette, believer of the occult and an all around wild girl.

Then any man was sure to lose interest.

* * *

Gabriel, however, wasn't so sure of this plan. Her color was up, and her eyes were vibrant; when she'd taken off her hat, she'd revealed the mass of brown curls that was one of her best assets, the dress was very flattering on her, perfect on her figure…it didn't help that she'd cast off her jacket and now there was only white blouse, which strained at every infuriated inhale.

Gabriel privately thought that her plan of going in there with all guns blazing might have the very opposite effect: he wouldn't be surprised if the not-at-all-troll-like James Clancy fell in love with Melinda the moment she walked in.

If he wasn't the kind of man who was more attracted to James, he might have fallen in love with Melinda himself.

* * *

She cast the door open, planning on being her father's worst nightmare, but good god, who was the man standing in front of her father's desk, most definitely not a troll? Most definitely tall and so handsome that she stepped back, momentarily startled.

His lips parted as he stared at her, eyes so blue she couldn't breathe to have them on her, large hands on his hat and gloves.

Why hadn't Gabriel taken his hat and gloves? Melinda wondered inanely, still speechless.

"Melinda," her father said, and her anger at her father flared back to life, bringing her back to her senses.

"Father," she said coolly, closing the double doors behind her, leaning on them and then pushing herself forward.

"Melinda," her father repeated. "I'd like you to meet—"

"No," Melinda said flatly.

"Pardon?" Tom said.

"This is a new age," Melinda said, her gaze shooting to a still startled Mr. Clancy. "You cannot sell me to the highest bidder, our world has moved beyond that."

Was she crazy or was that a smile twitching at the man's lips?

Tom was looking angry already; new age, one of the key words.

"Melinda, please settle down," he said. "You haven't even met him yet."

And oh, she wasn't going to play the obedient daughter.

She whirled to face Mr. Clancy, sticking out her hand, hearing her father's angry gasp. Well, if Mr. Clancy was a man, he'd shake her hand, treat her as an equal.

"Melinda Gordon," she said. "Not your future bride."

"James Clancy," he said coolly, his hand sliding into hers, giving it one, firm shake; he had the grip of a newspaper man, though she'd never shaken the hand of a newspaper man before, she felt it in the depths of her heart, the part of her stomach that jumped to life when he touched her.

She felt his fingers pressing into her wrist where her pulse was, and it spiked in response. He gave her a cool smile before pulling his hand away.

"So," Melinda began, turning to face her father again. "Have you decided on a price yet?"

"Maybe I shouldn't be here for this," Mr. Clancy said slowly.

Coward , Melinda thought. Bargaining to buy me and he can't even stick around once I'm here.

"Wait," Tom said, holding up a hand to both of them; she saw the cool rise of Mr. Clancy's brow, he had no intention of waiting. "Melinda, I didn't want to have to do this, but I will cut you off if you refuse to marry this man. And Mr. Clancy, I know we haven't set terms yet, but—"

"I'll marry her," Mr. Clancy said.

The study went silent. Melinda felt her heart pound in a new, strange way. The words were claiming, startling, heart stopping.

Her mouth was suddenly dry.

"Good," Tom said, shrinking a little, obviously surprised by the words. "I, uh, will let you two alone for a moment then, let you get to know each other."

With that, he slipped from the study.

Melinda had no idea what to even think when her father was gone, struck dumb into silence, turning slowly from where she'd watched him leave to face Mr. Clancy again.

She couldn't tell what he was thinking at all.

"What on earth did you just do?" She asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

"I made an agreement," Mr. Clancy said. "For the good of all involved."

" My good?" Melinda asked, her voice getting higher. "It is for my good that you supersede any decision I might make myself in this matter?"

"Your father's choice in the matter rather settled it," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "I'd rather you didn't ruin yourself by standing aside and letting him cut you off. Your reputation would never recover and even if you think you won't mind that now, in the future, you might change your mind."

She couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

"His reasons for wanting you to be married were...unusual but valid," Mr. Clancy continued. "I listened to his thoughts on the matter and decided for myself if I wanted to help you."

"Help me?" She almost spat the words.

His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. "Miss Gordon, I don't think you realize how narrow your choices are," he said. "I have seen it over and over again in my line of work. A rich girl makes an unwise match simply to displease her parents; unfailingly, she regrets it. Her life is ruined and she is left with no way to return to her previous life. I'd rather that did not happen to you."

"Why would I want to return to this life?" Melinda said, throwing her hands up, trying to latch onto one thing he said as being wrong but he was being entirely too reasonable, too cool headed, too much like he'd actually thought about this and truly thought he was doing her a favor.

A favor .

He was stepping closer, and she swallowed, backing up until her hips touched her father's desk behind her. He noted it and stopped immediately, perhaps taking a step back himself to give her space.

"I wouldn't be a cruel husband," he said, and reached to touch her hand. "I would respect you in any decision you made, even…" His eyes flashed and she flushed as his gaze briefly traveled over her before shooting back to her face, as if the move had been entirely unintentional. "Even barring me from the marriage bed."

"You don't seek children then?" Melinda asked, her hands clinging to the desk behind her to keep her standing because good god, this man was having an entirely unprecedented effect on her.

"I never said you wouldn't be allowed to go back on a decision once made," he said, and the implication in his words made her eyes go wide, made her breath come even faster.

"And you think that if I made such a decision, I would also be compelled to unmake it?" Melinda managed to say.

The smile on his lips made her whole body itch to move towards him.

"Your father says you have a...fondness or interest in the occult," he said, backing away from her, readying himself to leave. "That intrigues me. But, alas, I have a meeting to get to. Will you be free tomorrow?"

"In the morning, why do you ask?" Melinda said.

"I'd like to give you a ring," Mr. Clancy replied, his gaze falling to her hands, reaching to take one. "They are small," he said, words contemplative. "I'll have to get it resized."

And, as she watched, he pressed a kiss to the fingers he held in his own. "Until tomorrow then," he said quite simply. "My fiance."

She jerked her hand away from him, still feeling the fingers he'd kissed burning from the sensation, from how hot his mouth had been.

He turned and left the study; her father came back in.

"Well," he said. "Before you go off on me again, Melinda, I'm doing this for your own good. I will not have you end up the wife of a penniless professor."

She looked at her father in disbelief, her foggy mind finally clearing, and she laughed out loud.

She couldn't imagine Richard Payne ever being farther from her mind.

"We'll see about that, all of it," she said, and swept from the study, gathering her skirts in her hands and running up the stairs, closing the door to her bedroom behind her with a finality, running to the window of her room that overlooked the street.

He was a newspaperman, she remembered.

She wondered if he had an automobile.

She hated herself for softening towards him in even one regard. The man was...was...well, she wanted to say domineering, and yes, he had made a choice that she didn't like, yet he was saying it for the best reasons…

He was too self assured. That was it.

And yet she didn't like people who weren't confident in themselves and their own personal abilities.

She pressed her hand to her lips, imagining she could taste him on it.

She had never felt like this before; she didn't want to feel like it, not for him. He wouldn't understand, about the ghosts. He'd never understand. And even if she didn't love Richard, even if the only reason she even considered it was because people kept suggesting it to her, she'd rather be the wife of someone who knew .

But this was silly. Why would Richard even consider marrying her? That wasn't even in the realm of realistic possibility.

So that left her two choices. Let her father cut her off, try to live on her own, nonexistent income, and that would mean getting a job, and that would mean losing most of the avenues by which she helped people.

Or marry James Clancy, a choice which was more appealing every second she thought about it. She wouldn't be under her father's hand anymore.

She knew that, even if she ended up choosing the second option, she still needn't let him know that. Even if she was going to let herself be ready, that didn't mean she'd ever let that fact onto him.

And his audacity. Why on earth, if given the choice, would any woman submit to the terrors of the marriage bed? What power on earth could sway her choice in that, if she had one?

Innocent that she was, she didn't realize that she'd already felt and witnessed the one power: lust. Desire. Love.

She went to her vanity, leaning over it.

Her emotions were churning and her mind started to spin, creating a yet fictional life for her as James Clancy's wife.

There was no way he didn't have an automobile, she finally decided. He was a newspaperman, and a damned good one, by the expense of his clothes. He'd have only the finest, newest things.

Suppose he let her learn how to drive it? Suppose she had that unlimited freedom available to her?

He'd said he would abide by any decision she made.

Melinda wondered to what extent that promise would stretch.

She'd have to ask him about that.

The thought halted her, made her laugh again, a bit desperately, because she knew that, in her mind and heart, in every area that counted, she'd already determined to marry the man.

Notes:

Next time:

"The one decision of yours I won't abide by is you being unfaithful, emotionally or physically."


	3. Chapter 3

Melinda didn't really sleep that night, spending half of it awake and dreaming—er, worrying—about seeing Mr. Clancy the next morning.

And once she had drifted off into a fitful sleep, her current ghost ended that pretty quickly, and she woke up about midnight, her heart pounding like it had never before; sweat seeming to coat her entire body, wracked with trembling.

She'd been in a jungle. Her dreams had never been this intense before.

And she didn't really sleep after that either.

* * *

"Mr. Clancy," Gabriel announced, showing him into the morning room.

Melinda was already seated there, tense, wondering that her father didn't insist on a chaperone for this; then again, most girls had mothers to do this with them; it was likely that such a task just slipped her father's mind.

Gabriel slipped from the room again, and Mr. Clancy was just standing there in the doorway for a moment, waiting to see if he'd greet her, but the sight of him in her receiving room made her feel, quite honestly, a bit weak in the knees; she finally stood up in one graceful movement, extending her hand.

"Mr. Clancy," she greeted.

"Miss Gordon," he murmured, something showing in his eyes, before he reached to take her hand; she prepared for another brisk handshake like yesterday but he was raising it to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the knuckles; and yet from the way her hand burned, it wasn't chaste at all.

She pulled her hand away, saw the amusement on his face, as he watched her sit down on the large couch again, gesturing for him to sit in the chair opposite her.

Instead he sat down next to her—leaving plenty of space between them, but still on the same piece of furniture.

"I wanted to do this properly," Mr. Clancy began, looking at her; she didn't meet his gaze and he fell silent, until she looked up at him and he smiled at her. "Look at me," he said gently. "Otherwise it's not right."

Her cheeks colored a vibrant red, yet she somehow managed to look at him, hold his gaze.

He reached for her hand; she pulled it into her lap and he just smiled, his own hand falling back. "My mother always told me to say this when I had found the woman I wanted to marry," he began.

And this made her react, her head flying up again, her voice bursting free. "You want to marry me?" She said. "Why? What do you get out of it? What did my father pay you for yesterday?"

His eyes narrowed. "He didn't pay me anything," he said, voice almost steely.

She faltered, not really understanding this, settling back into herself.

Mr. Clancy cleared his throat. "There was a book that was published a few years before my father met my father," he said. "Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy. It was one of my father's favorites, and he used a line to...to propose to her," he continued, his eyes a bit distant. "This is what I hope from marriage, Miss Gordon. At home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be— and whenever I look up, there will be you."

His eyes were bluer than she remembered, and she couldn't pull her gaze away from his, and her lips were slowly parting; her mouth was dry and she ran her tongue over her lips, missing how his gaze shot there, how he suddenly straightened just a little more where he sat.

"I didn't accept any money from your father and nor do I plan to, even though I am sure he will offer," Mr. Clancy continued, his voice deep, getting softer. "If I plan to marry you, it won't be for money."

"If?" She asked, again finding herself only managing to latch onto one of the many things he said. His gaze was too intense, too blue, and his hands were again moving towards hers, and she tried to pull back but he took her hand in his.

"This was my mother's ring," he said. "My father saved for months to get money for it; he wanted her to have the best. She gave it to me when...when my father passed."

A cloud was on his face, and he was having trouble finding the words.

Her hand stopped struggling in his; this moment meant too much to him. "I had it resized yesterday, a jeweler friend…" Mr. Clancy was licking his lips, trying to find words. "If the ring doesn't please you, you can pick out another one. Miss Gordon…" His gaze shot up to her face, instead of where it had been focused on their now entwined hands. "Melinda. Let me ask you this formally, and you can...answer anything you must."

Her heart was thudding almost painfully in her chest, and she suddenly ached to know what it would feel like to have his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close, making her feel loved...how it would feel to have his large hands on her waist while they waltzed.

"Will you...marry me?" He asked, his eyes meeting hers, his lips twitching up to a smile. "Will you be my wife?"

She'd spent the whole morning dreaming up things to say when he gave her the ring, sarcastic, smart things, but he'd struck her dumb.

She felt tears welling in her eyes, feeling as touched as if...as if he really meant it.

That cleared her mind a little. "Yes," she managed to say. "James. I will marry you."

The words were stilted, and she hated how they sounded; cold and unsure.

But the look of surprise...and pleasure...on his face made her wonder how he'd heard them, and he was slipping a ring on her finger, then sliding his hands away, letting her go.

She missed the weight of his hands in her lap as soon as it was gone, ducking her head to look at the ring. It was a golden jewel, perhaps a citrine; Melinda really didn't know what it would be called, offset by two tiny pearls, on a strong silver band.

It was beautiful.

She found that there was a genuine smile on her face, that there was an undeniable thrill in wearing an engagement ring, to declare yourself off limits to the rest of the world, to declare that a man had wanted you enough to place a ring on your fingers to declare you his.

She looked up, and she could see the emotion on his face that he wasn't really trying to hide; this moment meant something to him and he wasn't afraid to show it.

And she wanted to kiss him, if only because it seemed like the proper thing to do, because you kissed when you were proposed to.

She found herself moving closer to him, and his gaze on her softened, his eyelids drooped and he was leaning closer as well, as the sounds in the room seemed to drop, and she could only hear his breath and the thrum of her own heart.

She turned away at the last moment, and he made an odd sound before pulling back, clearing his throat.

"We should talk terms," Melinda said matter of factly. "Mr. Clancy."

* * *

He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, trying to not himself forget where he was, with who he was.

"We're engaged," he said softly. "Surely you can bring yourself to call me James."

"Is that what you'd prefer?" She asked stiffly, color high on her cheeks, posture stiff.

She looked so beautiful sitting there, had from the moment he'd walked in and seen her fair face again, felt the same drop in his heart as he realized what he was getting into—a loveless marriage with the most bewitching woman he'd ever met.

And yet he wanted this. Wanted it fiercely. He'd only realized after leaving how much saying those words yesterday in the study had meant to him.

I'll marry her.

He wanted to and that fact still astounded him, and yet it didn't surprise him, because he'd truly never known someone like her, with her peculiar convictions and her fierceness, how the suffragette thing wasn't just a way to rebel against her father, no, that was the ghosts; the women's rights movement was something she actually believed in.

And he'd gone home, fetched the ring and almost begged Bobby to resize it that night, paying him double what the task would normally be; Bobby had looked at him so oddly, obviously holding back questions as to whom Jim had met and why there was such a hurry.

And he couldn't help it, he'd been up half the night, literally pacing his bedroom, trying to think of what he'd say when he went back to see her the next day because he didn't want to ruin things. He wanted to make it as easy for her as possible and yet...he'd still wanted to be her choice.

When he'd decided to actually ask, he hadn't expected a yes, or at least not a graceful one.

But, though her voice had faltered, as had her gaze, she had said yes, a definite yes, an answer that she most definitely meant.

And his ring was on her finger, which rested carefully on her lap.

Jim's hands missed the feel of her fingers entwined in them.

"I'd prefer Jim," he began. "But that can wait until we're married."

Her eyes flashed, and she sharply inhaled, and he tried to keep his eyes off of what that did for her figure but it was very hard. "Very well, James," she said, edging a bit away from him. "Do you have a horseless carriage?"

"Yes, I do own an automobile," Jim replied.

"Really?" She said, head shooting up, eagerness in her voice. "Could we take a drive in it? I've so been wanting to, but father…"

Her voice trailed off and she looked away from him, a flush on her cheeks.

"Of course we could," he said easily. "I don't have time today, but tomorrow afternoon I could come here to take you out for a spin."

"Would I need special outerwear?" She asked, voice quiet. "I...I don't have any, my father refused to buy any."

"I can find a driving coat for you to wear," he said, heart softening even more towards her. "You just need to put your strongest pins in your hat; believe me, it will fly off if you don't. And if you have one with a veil, that would be a good idea."

"Alright," she said, a smile in her voice. "Would you teach me how to drive? Once we're married, I suppose."

His heart seemed to stop beating in the moment he imagined her behind the wheel of a car. "We'll see," he said smoothly, and thankfully, she took that for what it was.

"Call me Melinda," she said a moment later. "Since we're engaged, you should call me Melinda."

He couldn't help his smile; she was so awkward about this whole thing. "Is that what you'd prefer?" He teased her and her gaze shot to him, wondering if he was making fun of her, and he certainly wasn't.

"It's preferable to 'my fiance'," she snapped. "Now I feel like we should talk more about what you'll expect of me once I'm your wife."

He felt burned, just a bit shaken by how she'd refused to let him jest, refused to accept the same words she'd thrown at him.

"You'll be my wife," he said simply, haltingly. "You'll oversee my household, you'll go out with me as my wife, you will do everything that a wife does."

"That is what you wish of me?" She said, voice tight.

What a strange way to phrase it. "That is what marriage means for all women," he said softly. "You can do whatever you wish in your free time. I'm not going to chain you to my desk by any means."

"Is there anything you won't allow me to do?" She asked.

"Allow you?" He returned, not liking this language, before reading closer into her words: she was trying to figure out the bare minimum that she'd have to do. "You can choose to do whatever," he said. "I'll give you the money, even, as long as it's not an extreme request, but you don't seem like the kind of woman who'd spent my whole bank account on one shopping trip."

She sniffed a little, turning away from him, briefly shattering Jim's forced calm.

"The one decision of yours I won't abide by is you being unfaithful, emotionally or physically," he snapped. "If you never let me into your bed, so be it, but if that means that you are going elsewhere for your emotional and physical needs, I will not abide by that."

Her cheeks were bright red; he wondered if she knew anything about what the marital bed contained. "Then I ask the same of you," she blurted. "Since it's not like I shall ever have any say in what you do but I must ask you before I do anything."

"I didn't say that," he said, forcing his tone to be calm.

"Will you vow it?" She managed, not looking at him.

"Yes," he said.

She exhaled in a rush, turning her head to meet his gaze. "I don't think you have much time left; surely you need to be getting to work, surely you're busy if you're so successful?"

He forced himself to laugh, to take humor in it, to stop letting it hurt. She was young, she'd grow up, and he still, still, didn't wish upon her the fate she'd have if she married someone else who wouldn't see her as she was.

He stood up, realizing rather sharply that this was not what he'd ever planned for when he proposed to a woman; that about this time he'd always expected them to be stealing kisses, that she'd be overflowing with happiness and love for him, as he would for her.

Instead he was leaving in more than a bit of a rush, both of them unsatisfied, possibly even angry with the other. "I can be here at two tomorrow," he said. "If you wish to go for a ride in my automobile."

He could see how torn she was, how what she wanted was getting in the way of her thirst to not be vulnerable or show any sort of emotion.

"Alright," she said, and he felt another stab of something.

"Alright what?" He wondered. "Do you wish to go?"

"Yes, I'd like to go for a ride," she said, the words said in a rush, and he found himself smiling, a smile that he didn't like to feel on his face.

"Two, then," he said, and left the room.

* * *

If he was honest with himself, Jim didn't expect her to come down the next day; he expected her to change her mind and just leave him hanging outside just for spite, but when he raised his hand to knock on the door, it was already opening and Melinda was slipping outside, closing the door quickly behind her and smiling nervously up at him.

"Hello," she said, her eyes lighting up when she saw the automobile behind him. "James."

"Good afternoon, Melinda," he said simply, seeing the energy in her; she was practically bouncing up and down. "Do you have a chaperone?"

"We're engaged, why bother?" She wondered, hurrying down the steps, every part of her anatomy seeming to bounce in ways that made Jim feel dizzy.

He walked down the steps after her, finally not caring, deciding to take this Melinda at face value. She waited impatiently while he pulled out the extra driving coat, noticing her hat and inwardly sighing. There was no veil as he'd cautioned but, knowing Tom Gordon, that probably wasn't her fault.

He helped her into the coat; he'd done this with his mother at times, when she hadn't had a coat available and it had been so natural and something he didn't even think about, but now he found himself staring at Melinda's bare neck under her tightly pinned hair and hat, and dreaming about pressing a kiss to it. His hands felt heavy as he helped her slide her arms in, moving slowly to prolong the oddly intimate moment.

He moved around, hands reaching to button it, but she was batting them away. "I can do it," she said, dismissing him, cheeks again bright red.

He just nodded, waiting for her to finish, and then opened the door for her, suddenly wishing he had a carriage and a reason to help her up into it, but she was scrambling inside, and he shut the door after her, walking around to the other side and getting in himself, putting his goggles back on; he could sense Melinda looking at him, tense and silent suddenly, eagerness gone.

Was it because he'd climbed in with her?

He fought back a sigh and started the car, missing the gasp from her as the engine thrummed to life, looking behind him before pulling away from the curb, and going down the street.

Her hands were curled into fists, and Jim slowed a bit, wondering if she was actually scared right now, and not pouting as he'd thought.

"I was thinking we'd go out into the countryside a little, escape from the city," he said, shouting a little to be heard.

She didn't say anything so he took it to be a yes; they continued down the road, gradually leaving the city behind with a huge bump in the road; Jim was used to it and steeled himself for it, but Melinda shrieked and grabbed his arm, clinging to him.

And she was scared, leaving Jim to feel like a heel, but oh god, she was pressing herself so tightly into him, holding tight, fingers digging into his arm.

"Do you want to slow down?" He asked and felt her nod against him, ending up just pulling over entirely, turning the car off, leaving just the two of them.

Her breathing was loud, harsh, and her eyes were huge in her face; she was still clutching his arm, holding on in a death grip.

"Are you alright?" He asked, softening his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't think."

"I'm fine," she managed, and he'd never seen her so pale. "I just underestimated...well, everything. The noise, the speed, the roughness."

"I didn't think," he repeated. "I don't have to go so fast."

She just nodded, looking at him with wide eyes again, just gazing up at him, and he stared down at her, his fiance, realizing that this was the closest they'd ever been.

She was so close; the press of her body was incredible and he felt like he could feel every one of her curves, and she was there and warm and he found that her pull was too much, turning his head, feeling himself lower his lips, seeing how wide her eyes were, and he was so tense, reaching one hand to cup her face and then she was pulling back, wide eyed, and he felt something inside of him plummet, trying to calm his breathing, slowly pulling himself back.

"We could try again, slower this time," he said, not looking at her; she'd scooted all the way over on the seat.

"Alright," she said, and they started again.

She was slowly loosening up; he could see it, feel it, and he eased the car faster; she didn't even notice.

There was finally a smile on her face, and then a laugh tumbled from her mouth, one of pure joy, uninhibited, and she was turning to face him. "This is amazing," she said, the wind buffeting her hat. "Can we try it faster now? I don't think I'm sc—I mean, can we try it faster?

He chuckled, and then fully laughed, turning to smile at her before he could help himself and...somehow...she smiled back, again one of pure joy.

"It's incredible," she told him. "I...thank you. James."

Somehow the way she tacked the James on, oh so reluctantly, just made his smile bigger, his heart warmer.

* * *

They were happy, somehow. The automobile was moving and Melinda could suddenly easily, joyfully, picture this as being part of her life from now on; if they did this when married, well, marriage wouldn't be a chore at all.

She looked at James out of the corner of her eye, seeing how relaxed he was, pleased to be showing this to her, to be with her as she first experienced it.

The wind was buffeting her hat, pulling at it; she and Andrea hadn't been sure about how many pins they'd need and she reached a hand up to hold onto it as James let the car gradually go faster; she found herself letting go of it, dropping her hands to hold onto the seat, looking at him, again, feeling as though time stilled in a brief moment; seeing how vivid he was, how real, how solid.

He turned to glance at her, and she cried in pain as the wind finally the pins from her hair, and her hat went whipping away.

James stopped the car rather abruptly; Melinda was already clambering out of the car because her father would notice if she came back without a hat and it was not worth the scandal and trouble to be seen without it in town.

James was running also; there was a low stone wall enclosing an orchard and Melinda didn't think twice to climb over it, not quite struggling, and a moment later, James, behind her, just vaulted over it, something she definitely noticed.

She had a sudden, odd feeling that he was no longer pursuing the hat so much as he was pursuing her, as they went deeper into the orchard, seeing the apple trees in full bloom; they were surrounded by apple blossoms and Melinda was jumping, trying to catch her hat, but one last gust of wind swept it out of her reach, until it collided with a tree and stuck in the branches.

James was there behind her, taking off his goggles and hat, his gloves and coat, and she didn't know why but her body was reacting quite viscerally to see him undressing; why, she didn't know, but the ripple of his muscles was making her react in entirely new ways as he cast his coat aside.

"I can get it," he said. "Don't worry."

"I'm not," she said quite simply and the simple confidence—James turned to stare at her for a moment, and then she really couldn't breathe because she felt like he'd never looked at her like this.

And then he was grabbing hold of a lower branch, hoisting himself up into the tree, and she clapped a hand to her mouth because otherwise she was sure that a rather embarrassing gasp would escape; that or a moan. The word that was in her mind was virile; he was incredibly...virile.

And he was so ably climbing the tree, grabbing each branch, not faltering, until he'd grabbed her hat and let it float down to her, then merely going to a lower branch and jumping down, powerful legs catching him, bracing him as he landed.

"We had to guess about the pins," Melinda told him, explained to him. "I'm sorry for ruining our ride."

And he was walking forward, his hands reaching towards her, cupping her face in his and he was leaning in close. "You didn't ruin anything," he breathed, and she turned her head; his lips touched her cheek.

She heard a strangled sound escape from him, expecting him to pull away, but his lips were on her cheek, hot; his lips were parting and he was kissing down to her ear, making her shiver in quite a shocking way, making her feel dizzy and both warm and cold at the same time.

And then his arms were moving, sliding around her, pulling her close, and just holding her there in an embrace.

"We can chase after your hats as much as needed," he whispered, his lips near her ear, making her moan, a sound that made him still, body stiffening, and then he was pulling away, bending to pick up his things and the view of his...backside made her eyes widen and her heart beat quite a lot faster.

My god, what this man was doing to her. All these emotions and she honestly didn't know how to handle any of them.

And then he was straightening and she was holding tight to her hat and they were leaving the orchard, getting back to his automobile, climbing in and driving home.

* * *

Negotiations had been reached and Jim was left feeling ever more like, though her best interests at heart Tom Gordon might have, the man had no idea who his daughter was or what she needed.

Yes, he agreed that a disastrous marriage made to spite her father or just to feel free would be, well, a disaster, but neither did he think that meant Melinda should have to sacrifice so much.

He was suddenly left feeling like a heel, remembering his words in the study, saying that he'd marry her.

Even if she'd said yes the next day...well, maybe that wasn't entirely the most free yes.

As they grew closer, or as Jim imagined they grew closer, because every damn time, every outing, every drive, every walk in the garden, left him desperately wanting to kiss her, coming damn well close and Melinda skirting his advances…as they spent more time together, though, he wanted, more and more, to be Melinda's choice. For her yes to him to have been completely and utterly...willing. Passionate. True. Heartfelt.

He wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her. Wanted her.

He couldn't let himself put a stronger label on it than that, because already seeing her made his heart jolt in his chest to the extent that he wondered if he was going crazy.

If he was a better man, he realized, he would never have said in the study with Tom. Because the reason he'd said yes was to have Melinda all to himself.

And this was what he realized when he first saw Richard Payne looking at his fiance.

That no matter what the man was like, James didn't want him anywhere near Melinda.

Notes:

Next time:

"Maybe this isn't the wedding night I dreamed of either."


	4. Chapter 4

Andrea helped her pick out a dress; they went to the dressmaker's together with her father's strict instructions to get something 'he'd be proud of her' in; Melinda had no idea how to take that because if wearing something was how to make her father proud, she was even more confused than ever.

James' eyes had lit up when she mentioned it, and he'd again grown amorous; it had been another visit that ended with his lips dangerously near hers and she'd, again, skirted him.

She wasn't sure why, honestly. They were engaged, and from how her body reacted to his closeness, it seemed that it would be enjoyable, in a kind of nervewracking way.

Would she enjoy it? Because enjoyment of something had never before included feeling her knees go weak, or her thighs pounding together in a way that thoroughly alarmed her.

But when his arms were around her, whenever he helped her with something, and his body was close to hers, she went absolutely, completely wild; she could tell how wide her eyes were, and how hot her cheeks; she felt limp and like she was about to melt from the utter heat of him.

And his arms. He had such big arms; they'd been in public and he'd just slid one arm around her waist as they walked around a garden party, and she'd felt everyone's eyes on her from how closely he was holding her.

And she saw the smiles.

They were fooling people; she'd realized what he was trying to do and she'd pulled away from him, angry at how he was trying to manipulate her; manipulate them.

He hadn't protested, but she'd felt the disapproval in his eyes; Rick had been there and she'd gone to speak to him, and it wasn't anger in his gaze when he surveyed them; Jim didn't seem to get angry but there was a clear dissatisfaction.

And Rick had seemed so confused by her engagement; he'd acted so strangely, saying something odd about how she should have told him.

Told him what?

Melinda had no idea but her father had spied Rick then and almost literally chased the man away.

And here it was, Melinda Gordon's wedding day.

It didn't seem real. She woke up with a stomach ache, something that stayed as Andrea and Lolita and Jane helped her dress; all of their employed maids; Lolita was a beautiful Spanish girl who did Melinda's hair in a cascade of curls which were then tightly pinned up; what was the point of the curls if she was just to end up with them up anyway?

Sometimes she hated what was proper. She would have looked so much better with her hair down but that wasn't allowed. Or at least it was frowned on.

The dress was gorgeous, she had to admit, hesitantly touching the soft material, feeling dirty, like she wasn't fit to wear it, because of how fake this was, how untrue.

But she looked beautiful.

She'd make her father proud, she thought a bit bitterly, as the veil was settled onto her head.

They were getting married.

She was getting married, to a man she didn't really know.

She was getting married, to a man that she certainly held...unique...feelings for but she couldn't call them love.

Or could she?

Come to think of it, Melinda didn't really know what love was, or how it felt, considering that she'd never really experienced it. Not really. Not properly.

Not for a long, long time. Not in a way she could remember it.

The veil was lowered over her face, and she looked at the world through a haze of white lace.

It made everything look so beautiful.

It turned her life into something lovely and precious, and not just something to bargain with.

She walked unseeingly into the church foyer; her father was waiting there and he took her arm tightly in his, holding her close by his side. "I'm so proud that this day came for us," he said softly. "For you, my precious daughter."

"Precious," Melinda choked out.

"Yes, my dear," he said. "You know I only want what's best for you. And this...James will be good to you, he understands your...your whims and desires, your odd little flights of fancy. And he'll cater to them."

Melinda just shook her head, looking up at the church doors to see a spirit standing there, smiling at her; an old priest.

"It's not that hard, I'm told," he said softly. "Getting married. Mind you, I never did but I married dozens and dozens of couples. They were all mostly happy." He appeared next to her; she looked over her shoulder, tears about to pour down her face, ready to spill over. "You might be too. Let it surprise you. Marriage is a jump in the dark for all men and women, no matter how well they know each other...or don't know."

He winked and vanished again.

Melinda felt the tears pour down her cheeks as the organ music started; the veil was hiding her face and no one noticed as the doors opened and her father led her up the aisle; she moved stiffly but the dress mostly covered that; no one could tell how haltingly she was moving.

And James was there, waiting at the front.

She forced the tears away; they reached the altar and her father was about to lift the veil up but her tears weren't that far away and she shook her head; he merely kissed her through the veil. "It'll be fine," he said. "Over in a second."

Over in a second? What did he think marriage was?

And just because his marriage had lasted such little time…

But then again, she shouldn't think about things like that.

James was there, just waiting, and her father fell back; he reached his hand out, so big and she took it; his completely enveloped hers.

He led her to the altar, up the steps, holding tight to her hand, taking her there.

She breathed in, feeling her tears go away.

The minister was speaking, saying words she didn't pay much attention to. "I do," she said simply when it was her turn, her voice emotionless.

She felt James' eyes on her.

He said those words too; his voice deep and passionate, a dark rumble that made her wonder what it would be like to wake up to that voice.

The thought came from nowhere; and she quickly dismissed it. They wouldn't be...he'd said…

They wouldn't be sharing a bed.

Why did she want him to change his mind about that?

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride."

She heard the words and then Jim was lifting her veil, gently pushing it back past her face. Her tears were long gone by now; she bit her lip as the veil was pushed fully back and Jim's hands were cradling her face.

"May I?" He breathed, and she could feel the minister's gaze on her; she quickly nodded.

His lips lowered and she gasped, because this was nothing like she'd ever expected. His lips were bigger than hers; soft but rougher than her own; his lips were warm, teasing, and his hands were so big, angling her face up higher, to better meet his.

She felt a gasp escape and her whole world seemed to freeze; she was reaching up, placing her hands on his shoulders, keeping him there and then there was a soft cough.

She felt dizzy as James pulled away; she could see the red on his cheeks and looked around her at the church watching them.

Oh god. How long had they been standing there, just kissing, in front of god and everyone?

How humiliating.

James was tucking her arm through his, looking down at her. "You look beautiful," he whispered.

"I don't care," she said finally in return, turning her face away.

He'd never seen such a sight, when Melinda walked down the aisle, looking so fragile, walking so smoothly.

The dress was amazing; hugging her figure so tightly, showing her off to perfection and the white lace against her skin was such a sight, so pure and yet so incredibly erotic.

He imagined taking it off of her.

And then he shook that image from his mind; that wasn't going to happen. They'd talked about this.

And then she'd said them, the words that would bind them together for the rest of their lives: I do.

And he'd repeated them and then he'd been told to kiss her.

Finally.

The tension over the past few weeks had been unbelievable; it seemed that every time he saw her he just wanted her more. Their lives had been filled with parties, showing their couplehood off to all of the right people so that it was less of a scandal.

She'd met his mother, but it had been a busy night and Faith hadn't really gotten a chance to truly speak to her; Jim supposed that he should be thankful for that because he wasn't sure what Melinda might have said in a long conversation.

They would have at least bonded over the women's suffrage movement. Jim was glad of that fact.

He'd tried to ask her about the occult, see what exactly she wanted to believe in, but the conversation had never gone anywhere; her eyes would widen and then she'd just shut down; he'd stopped asking after a point.

And all the tension...had almost been worth it when he lifted her veil, saw her beautiful face, saw her brown eyes staring up at him, her lips plump, ready to be kissed...ready for his kiss.

And he lowered his lips, and when they met hers, after all this time, it was like...he couldn't even describe it. He'd been kissing her cheek all this time, and it had been incredibly soft, and like kissing roses, but her lips were so much different; it was so much headier, so much more heated.

And it was so much more different when she was able to respond, when she was kissing back, when it was a two way street.

When they'd kissed so long that her hands had come to rest on his shoulders. When they'd kissed so long that he was dizzy. When they'd kissed so long that the minister had had to cough (more than once?) to get them to part. To get them to even notice the world outside of them.

He really wished he hadn't said yes to letting her bar him from their bed. Because judging from how she'd responded just now, he could have convinced her that it would be good.

But…

First of all he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't let himself be that man.

And second of all, he'd promised.

And third of all...most selfish of all…

He wanted her to be willing. He wanted her to ask for it, he wanted her to be the one to change her mind, he wanted her to be the one to give a little in this relationship.

The wedding party was at Tom Gordon's house; he had a ballroom of sorts, and there was food, and a small orchestra and dancing.

He held Melinda in his arms and they danced; he held her close, and they pretended they were in love.

She pretended.

He didn't have to.

The night was drawing to a close, and he could see the guests getting impatient; why hadn't they left yet?

He saw Tom looking at them, eyes insistent; they were to go across town to Jim's townhouse, and Jim felt the eyes of the crowd on him; Melinda was getting so tense, and he leaned to whisper in her ear.

"It's time to go, or there will be talk," he said, feeling her hand clench on his arm.

"Of course," she said, and he led her from the room.

They got into Tom's carriage; Gabriel was driving and Jim wondered what Gabriel would think if they weren't in a clinch upon arriving at Jim's townhouse, but just touching Melinda's waist when they got into the carriage to help her up had her tenser than he'd ever seen her...and that was saying a lot.

He let her keep her distance though, and when they got to his townhouse he scrambled from the carriage, glaring at Gabriel to make sure that the man didn't try to get down.

Because this was Jim's place. He was going to be the one who helped Melinda down.

He missed Gabriel's gaze going south, traveling over Jim's body in an expression of longing before the man turned stiffly away.

"I don't know who's going to be watching," Jim said softly. "But my servants and others on this block know that I'm a romantic."

"What?" Melinda wondered, but he was already reaching for her, sweeping her into his arms.

"I was always going to carry you over the threshold, my dear," he whispered, cradling her against his chest; she was so small compared to him. It was like carrying nothing.

And yet he could feel her every curve; her breasts were against his chest, and his hands shifted to readjust her weight; he could feel her thighs, supple and strong through the dress material.

He wouldn't make it past this night. Or if he did, it would all be from the grace of god.

He walked forward, hearing a gasp from her, feeling himself harden at the sound.

The door was swinging open; his butler was there, smiling a private smile, and Jim swept past him, going to the stairs, long legs carrying him straight up.

He could feel Melinda's breath escalating; her breasts expanded to press against his chest, make his breath catch in response, and they were inside his bedroom.

He didn't know whose idea it had been but there were candles lit; a fire in the fireplace and there were white satin sheets on the bed; the blankets were pulled back to show it.

"What are you doing?" She said, voice shaking, as he kicked the door shut with his foot.

He set her down, not wanting to let her go, but let her go he did; she was backing up and she was probably the first woman he'd ever seen stand in this room; he was never there when the maids tidied and the...encounters he'd had over the years had never been at home.

And she was dressed in white lace, and her skin was so creamy against it, and she was so beautiful; her luscious curls had started to escape from her tight bun and he just wanted to be with her, in every way possible, tonight, all nights.

"You said you wouldn't," she said, voice shaking and yet steely.

"I'm not going to, but we must keep up appearances," he began.

She was backing up, nearing the bed, and he couldn't breathe at the sight. Her legs tangled and she hit the bed with the back of her thighs; it took everything within him, every last ounce of restraint, to not move forward, pin her there, kiss her until she responded because he knew she would.

He'd proven that she would. It wouldn't be unwilling.

It wouldn't be unwilling. She'd welcome him, she'd be begging for him.

"Melinda—" He began.

"No, you don't get to say that," she said, jumping like she'd been shot when her legs touched the bed, darting forward.

But forward brought her closer to him again; it was a choice between him or the bed.

She chose the fireplace.

"This is not going to happen, you think I want it to happen like this?" She asked, voice shaking. "Sold like meat to the highest bidder? Don't you think I realize that most girls dream of this night? This is not what I dreamed."

She held a hand up as if to fight him off but he hadn't even moved.

And he was angry. He had made her promise. Why didn't she at least trust him to keep it? Why, after everything?

His eyes swept over her, from the neckline of her gown down to the hem on the floor, letting his gaze linger over each precious inch until her face was burning. "Maybe this isn't the wedding night I dreamed of either," he said, voice cutting.

And with that he left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Melinda stood frozen in the bedroom for a long moment after James had left, finally sagging onto the floor, her legs giving way.

She'd been hoping...literally hoping that he would seduce her. Her words, about this being the night girls dreamed of…

That was supposed to prompt him to move forward, telling her that it wasn't too late.

And instead he'd left.

She saw herself in a full length mirror on the other side of the room, crumpled on the floor. She slowly stood up, going over to the mirror and staring at herself.

Wasn't she beautiful? The dress was hugging her almost to scandal, and she found herself running her own hands over the bodice, biting her lip.

Didn't she tempt him?

Why didn't he try?

He'd left.

She went back to the bed, throwing herself across it, sobbing her heart out. Was she really such a troll as to not even tempt her husband on their wedding night?

* * *

Jim sat in his study, unseeingly looking over the room.

He had a glass of brandy in his hand; he wasn't a drinker but he always had alcohol on hand for guests and such.

This was the first time he'd poured a glass for himself in months.

The liquor burned the first mouthful; then the glass sat in his hand, untouched; he didn't want his mind dulled right now, it needed to be sharp, it needed to remember.

He was a married man, he reflected, his thoughts going to the woman in his bedroom.

He was married and it was his wedding night and here he was, sitting in his study, drinking.

He looked at the glass in disgust, placing it down on his desk.

Melinda was so beautiful, he reflected, his mind going to all sorts of places. Her neck. He would love to kiss her neck.

Her cheekbones, up by her eyes; he'd brush his lips there, make her moan. He'd trace a path to her ears; she had such delicate ears.

And he'd slowly travel down; their lips would meet. His hands would be on her waist, his arms would slide around her. He'd lift her up, they'd go forward to the bed and he'd be allowed to undress her.

He felt his ears growing hotter, his mouth was dry.

She would be waiting for him, eyes wide.

His hands would go to the buttons on her dress, hidden by the lace on the back.

His fingers would be shaking but they wouldn't fumble; he would be far too intent to let that happen.

He'd place a kiss to her neck when he unbuttoned the first button. He'd place a kiss lower down with the second button.

He would kiss every piece of skin as it was revealed to him.

Her dress would slowly fall, and he couldn't properly picture her undergarments; would they be lacy...thin...unpractical…

Or would she be in a ribboned corset, her breasts elevated by the instrument, her waist only enhanced by it…

Her hips, her legs...would they be dressed in lacy bloomers, or silk...or no bloomers…

He couldn't breathe.

He didn't want to be this type of man.

If he couldn't have her, he wasn't going to imagine her as she might be. Not only would his mind never live up to the reality of her, it just felt unfair.

He stood up, hands heavy, movements stiff around the bulge in his pants.

He had no idea what he was going to do tonight, he reflected, rubbing his neck and walking to get a book.

No idea.

* * *

The dress was beginning to pinch, Melinda reflected dully, maybe an hour later, coming back to herself after the tears had finally stopped.

She sat up again, moaning a bit from how much tighter the dress seemed, edging off the bed and walking over to the mirror.

It was time to take this off, she reflected, trying to remember this morning and how exactly she and Andrea had wiggled her into it.

Buttons, she thought, her hand going to her back, reaching the first one.

But it was a stiff material; the buttons were very stubborn and the fit of the dress made reaching behind herself like this not only difficult but downright painful.

She dropped her arms, perplexed.

Well, she could return to the dress later.

She began to pull pins from her hair, biting her lip a bit when she got impatient and pulled too roughly.

This was painful. Beauty was painful.

She pulled the last one out; her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, curly and tousled and wild.

She looked around the room; her things had been moved here by servants, she supposed, sometime during the wedding; her hair brush was on a white vanity.

She wondered if the piece of furniture was new, sweeping across the room to take the brush.

The sleeves on the dress were tight; after a few minutes of struggling to get her arms up enough to properly brush her hair she gave up, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes again.

She sat on the bed, determined to at least get her shoes off, pulling at the buttons, yanking them off, leaving her in delicate white stockings.

She hitched her dress up, peeling back the layers, but the stockings were attached to her garter belt and she couldn't get at her waist.

She couldn't even get her stockings off.

She wanted to both laugh and cry from what a ridiculous picture she must make, a rich girl who wanted for nothing and yet couldn't even take her own damn clothes off in the evening.

She had never asked to be rich, she'd never asked for these 'blessings'.

She arched her chest, wiggling her arms around, desperately trying for the buttons again; she got one and then it was just too hard and she was left near tears, wondering what on earth she was supposed to do.

Andrea had this week off; Melinda had given it to her, assuming that she wouldn't need much help dressing because no one would be expecting her and James to leave his townhouse and therefore what would she need to dress for?

Undressing, however.

She hadn't considered that part of the equation.

She'd only been to James' house once before, a small party had been given there. She didn't remember any of his servants; did he have upstairs maids or just kitchen girls?

She couldn't ask his butler, surely not.

So who did that leave?

The answer slammed into her, leaving her gasping, heart fluttering, beating madly against her rib cage.

No, she couldn't.

She wouldn't.

Yet what other choice did she even have? Sleeping in this dress?

* * *

Jim had, maybe, dozed off. His world was filled with lace and warmth; his hands were encircling his wife's waist and she was leaning into his kiss.

A knock sounded at the door.

He jerked back to himself, staring around the room; probably a full hour hadn't even passed.

He wondered who it was, hoping it wasn't a servant poking around, seeing if the study was empty so they could clean it.

No. He'd sent all the servants home.

"Come in," he finally called, yawning a bit, covering his mouth, shoving his hair back off of his forehead.

The door creaked open; he turned and Melinda was standing there, still in her dress.

Her eyes were tinged with red, and she was biting her bottom lip, looking everywhere but at him.

"Melinda," he said, all breath whooshing from his lungs.

"James," she replied, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "I hoped you were in here. I wasn't sure."

He ran his own hands over his trousers, smoothing a crease. "Do you need something?" He asked, and felt his heart leap into his throat. By god. Had she changed her mind?

"I need your help with something," Melinda whispered, tossing her head a little as if to offset the words. "I, um…" Her cheeks were bright red, and Jim felt his body carrying him forward, until he was but a foot away from her.

All imaginings of her paled in comparison to the real thing. Her lips were so red, plump, and her skin seemed to glow in the firelight.

Her eyes fluttered shut; she had impossibly long lashes.

And her hair.

Oh god, her hair. She'd taken the pins out; her curls had tumbled around her shoulders, making her look tousled and ready for bed. Her hair framed her face so beautifully, in ways that he'd never seen before, never really thought about seeing, but now he knew he'd never stop thinking about.

"I need help getting my dress off," she said, all in a rush.

He couldn't breathe.

"I didn't think I would, so I gave my maid the week off, but I will have to spend the whole week in this wedding dress unless you help me," she finished.

Jim processed the words, his brain slow.

She was asking him, humbling herself, to undress her.

To undress her.

Just undress her. Undress her and nothing more.

He wasn't sure he could handle that.

He already felt a little lightheaded, eyes traveling over her without meaning to, and she was shifting from foot to foot.

How could he say no?

He could still see that she'd been crying; her eyes were red.

"Of course I'll help you," he said, and her eyes shot to him, anxious.

She was just a girl. A heartbroken, innocent girl who was asking for his help.

"Come on," he soothed, taking her arm. "Let's go back upstairs."

"No, I—"

"I'll keep my promise, Melinda," he said softly, voice low and rumbling; she flushed that he already knew what she was saying and nodded slowly, relaxing into the grip of his arm. "Are you tired?" He asked, as they left the study; he was holding her closely, gently, but firmly.

She just nodded; he again swept her into his arms, hearing her gasp.

"I'll keep my promise," he rasped, and she merely nodded, leaning her head on his shoulder as he walked up the stairs.

The door to the bedroom had been left open; Jim kicked it shut behind him and carried Melinda over to the white armchair, settling her into it.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he placed a finger to her lips, before moving around and starting to unbutton her dress.

He heard her sigh, one of relief, of pleasure to finally be getting out of this dress that had ended up being a prison.

And he...he bit back all sounds, feeling every drop of blood in his body rush to his already raging erection.

He shifted, so she couldn't see; would she know the meaning of it anyway? He wasn't sure. She was such an innocent.

There was bare skin revealed to him, and then undergarments; he slowly pulled on the shoulders of the dress and began to tug it down her arms, pretending that the only thing he was focusing on right now was the task at hand, and that he wasn't focusing on the perfection of her breasts under his lidded gaze.

She was still breathing rapidly, bringing her chest up and down, elevating the skin on display above the corset; it was a corset, though not tightly cinched.

He wanted to reach out and touch the globes that promised to be perfection itself; a handful for him and then some. He wanted to kiss and taste the skin there; he wanted to pull aside the lace still covering them.

"Stand up," he whispered, remaining kneeling on the floor.

She did so, and he slowly tugged her dress down over her waist; she was so tiny, so short; her chest was practically eye level now and he ducked his head, trying to breathe, following the path of the dress to the floor, but that was almost as dangerous; his fingers skirted her thighs, covered in sheer bloomers, and he could feel how warm her legs warm, how soft, how strong and supple.

God.

He wasn't sure how he was still moving sensibly, how he hadn't just captured her in his arms yet, pulling her close.

She seemed to sway towards him, reaching out with one hand to grab hold of his shoulder, clinging to it as though he were a port in a storm.

He loved her, he reflected, watching her step out of the dress.

She was wearing stockings; he could just see the garters underneath the sheer bloomers.

He placed his hand on her thigh, feeling her quake at his touch. Through the material of the bloomer, he unfastened one garter, looking up at her as he did so, their gazes hot, intense on the other.

He slid it down her leg; she was, it seemed, wearing a garter belt but he couldn't afford to fixate on that now, could he?

Her stocking came with it; he pulled both from her foot, and then did the other leg.

"I think I can get the rest," Melinda finally whispered, her other hand now on his shoulders shoulder; they seemed to be impossibly close and Jim was so ready, so eager to just touch her more, explore her.

He had to leave.

She'd want him to leave.

He would leave.

After…

After this…

He leaned forward, forehead touching her breasts, pressing his face into her stomach, using his hands to pull her close, just pressing against her; he heard her squeak of protest and surprise but she wasn't pushing him away; his hands were at her waist, sliding down; he could feel the curve of her hips and ass underneath his hands; her figure wasn't faked at all, she truly did have these curves under her dresses.

She had no need for this corset, he reflected, hands going to the ties, ready to let her out of it.

And then she was backing up, out of his embrace; his arms fell away and he closed his eyes, hearing her moving.

He tried to keep track of her footsteps, just staying there by the chair, kneeling there, waiting so long and finally standing up, when he could move enough to walk.

His eyes fluttered open, he felt everything stop again, because he could see a clear trail of everything she hadn't let him remove, and she was standing by the vanity, wearing one of his bathrobes, brushing her hair out.

"Where are you going to...sleep?" Melinda whispered, as he walked towards her; they were married.

She let out a little sigh in the back of her throat when he reached her, when his chest touched her shoulders.

He found himself wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her neck; she smelled like lavender.

He pressed a kiss to her neck, his arms feeling her body, most definitely bare underneath this robe. His robe.

She was moaning, and he was feeling like he'd been drugged; he couldn't possibly leave this room.

"I'll sleep in the study," he finally rasped, pulling away.

He saw the clear surprise in her gaze, her shocked eyes in the mirror, and she was staring at him; their gazes met and held in the looking glass.

"Unless…" He left the word hanging and she was pulling away from him, shaking him off, going to the bed.

"Sleep where you want," she said stiffly, got in and pulled the covers over her.

He turned out the lights and left the room, making the oh so lonely journey to the downstairs study.


	6. Chapter 6

Melinda drifted awake, feeling soft sheets and heavy covers.

She blinked, bolting upright and looking in confusion around herself at the unfamiliar room. She saw her clothes littering the floor; the dress was draped over the arm chair and everything that had happened last night flooded back in.

She remembered how it had felt when James had been holding her; the pressure of his hands on her legs...every thrilling moment when he'd been undressing her.

This was too much, she thought, shaking her head, cheeks hot.

She looked over at the empty bed, an ache briefly passing through her heart that it was empty. Why hadn't he tried to convince her? After those moments between them, where she'd felt closer to him than any other person?

She shoved the blankets back, going to the dresser, brushing her hair out and looking at herself in the mirror. She looked tired.

And she didn't have a maid to help her dress.

It appeared she wouldn't be wearing a corset today then.

* * *

Jim sat at the breakfast table reading his paper, noting the stories that had been included. They'd done a superb job on it; he'd commend Ned for it when he went back to work.

He had this week off.

Most of his colleagues and employees had been shocked it was only a week, but Jim had used the excuse of wanting to keep himself firmly ensconced in the newspaper world and not wanting more distraction than permissible.

Which most people didn't find to ring entirely true for Jim; he'd always tried to balance work and personal life, neither leaked into the other and, while he'd pulled a few late nights, he was not the type of man to cut his honeymoon short.

Especially since he was the type of man to be head over heels for his wife; when he looked at her like that, like she hung the moon…

There were some heads shaken at his office when they heard how quickly he'd be coming back. Shakes that he'd missed.

He'd cleared his throat as his cup of coffee was refilled; he took a drink with unseeing eyes and then heard his butler clear his throat.

He looked up, and the cup of coffee clattered to the table, just missing breaking.

Melinda stood in the doorway, dressed in a shirtwaist and skirt.

She looked beautiful; he'd never seen her in something so simple; he loved seeing her dressed up, but this was...this was so intimate, in such an odd way. Seeing her at home like this, unadorned, just Melinda.

But…

What was she doing here?

Most wives took breakfast in bed; taking it as their reward to not have to get up for breakfast; it was the distinction for the rich that single women ate at their father's breakfast table, but married women never stirred from their husband's bed.

Robert was hurrying to lay a place for her, making it seem natural, like he'd just been waiting for her to come down; Melinda was edging into the room, not looking at either man; Jim's paper was lowered just enough to see her, but still seem like he was reading it, and when she sat down, she was next to him; Robert had set her place near his.

"Good morning," Jim said, trying to forget how he'd seen her last night; trying to keep things simple and uncomplicated.

"Good morning," she said, taking a scone; breaking it apart with shaking fingers and spreading butter on it.

"Did you...sleep well?" Jim asked, voice lower than he'd intended.

Melinda's cheeks colored, and she met his gaze. "Yes, actually," she said, ducking her face away. "And you?"

He nodded, taking a drink of coffee; the hot liquid distracted him and he turned back to his cooling eggs, taking a bite.

"What are your plans for the day?" Melinda wondered. "Are you going into the office?"

He heard Robert pause, and Jim inhaled, looking up to meet his butler's gaze; the man left in an instant, closing the doors discreetly.

Melinda didn't even notice the butler's exit.

"I've taken the week off," Jim said. "I just got married, after all."

Her eyes widened, and she took a swift drink of tea. "Oh," she said finally, a few moments later. Her cheeks were bright red.

"I'll probably spend it in my study," Jim finally said. "Reading, writing, catching up on correspondence." He looked down at his plate. "We could spend it together, if you wished. Go for a ride."

"Oh, I don't know, honestly," Melinda said.

He nodded. "The house is yours," he stated, pushing his chair back. "Go anywhere without hesitation."

"Alright," she whispered.

And god knew he wanted to say more, touch her, reassure her in some way. "And I know we haven't spoken much about this, but anything of mine is yours. Spend anything of mine that you wish; I give you no purse limits."

Her hair was down, something he'd only seen once before, last night.

She looked beautiful, soft and undone. There were curls in her hair, natural curls that he wasn't sure he'd ever noticed before; soft waves.

She made such a lovely picture.

"I'll be in my study," he finally finished. "If you need me."

"Alright," she whispered, and he slipped from the room.

* * *

Melinda roamed the whole house, opening every door, accustoming herself to the floor plan. She avoided the study; she knew from last night exactly what door it was, and she mainly stuck to the upstairs.

It was a lovely house, elegantly decorated; she noticed a lack of warmth in most of the pieces on the walls, mentally changing the colors, wondering if he'd ever let her redecorate.

She wasn't bored, by any means; she was alive, feeling like she was sneaking even though she wasn't, even though she had full reign over this house now, she was still avoiding servants, ducking into doorways and keeping quiet when they passed.

She was in his closet, running her fingers over his silken ties, touching stiff trousers.

She wondered where his library was. He was definitely the type of man to read a lot, she reflected, and wandered from the bedroom. His bedroom. She shivered a little, knowing that there were certain hours of the day—rather, night—where she'd never dare to enter this room.

It was time to find another room that she'd actually feel comfortable in, besides her bedroom. She wasn't going to spend her entire life in bed, hiding away from the world. Even if, at this moment, staring at James' clothes, she wanted to stay in his bedroom forever. Or at least until he came in.

Or maybe beyond that.

She shivered, moving out from the closet, seeing the bed in the center of the room. His bed wasn't all that different from hers, but oh god.

She found herself walking forward, slowly lowering herself onto the bed, stretching out, moving her arms over her head.

Maybe it was just because she'd been so uncomfortable last night, but oh goodness, his bed was a lot more comfortable than hers was.

She sighed, slowly getting back to her feet.

She was going to find the library, she decided, and left his bedroom in a hurry, creeping down the front stairs, determined to try every door.

It wasn't that large a house; there were no wings by any means.

She wandered around the downstairs, trying a few knobs, and some, disappointingly, led to closets.

But finally she turned a knob and saw bookshelves. Excited, she pushed it open the rest of the way, seeing mahogany, and shelves that were packed from side to side with books.

She wondered what books lined his shelves. All histories, things only a newspaper man would need?

Or maybe some biographies. She liked some biographies.

She moved slowly into the room, losing herself looking at the shelves, running a hand over some of the spines.

Her father's library had never been large, and while James' couldn't match some, it was definitely double Tom's.

She licked her lips, absently wishing for some water, reaching for a book that caught her eye: Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. A roman philosopher, she thought; hoped that she wasn't wrong.

She took it, and looked around her, behind her, for a chair to sit on, hoping for an armchair but she would have gladly accepted a stool.

She took in the rest of the room; it was large, and the bookshelves were set up to form a sort of maze. A maze that Melinda decided to follow to its end, hoping that there would be a chair there.

She let the door swing shut behind her, and moved farther into the room, the book clasped in her hand, and breathed in, looking at the full windows, through which sunlight beamed.

She was going to like this room; it was already her favorite in the whole house.

She turned the final corner and found a charming scene: a fireplace, whose logs were unlit; a collection of two armchairs and a desk.

A desk at which James sat.

She inhaled sharply at the sight of him; he had removed his jacket, his shirtsleeves were shoved up, and he wore glasses.

He was reading a letter; it looked like he was writing one in reply as well, and he looked up at her, at the sound she made.

The sound he made in reply was similar to her own inhale; they were both surprised.

"I'm sorry, I thought this was the library," Melinda stuttered.

"It is," James said. "The library is the same room as my study."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Melinda repeated.

"Don't be, you aren't disturbing me," James insisted, starting to push back his chair, but she took a step back in alarm.

"Oh, then don't get up, don't let me bother you," she stammered. "I was just looking for a chair. An armchair, and I found some."

She lamely gestured to the two chairs, and then almost jumped into the nearest one in hopes that James wouldn't get up if she did.

He slowly lowered himself back into his seat, considering her closely.

She bit her lip, flipping the book open, reading it with unseeing eyes.

She could feel him watching her.

And then, finally, he lowered his gaze back to his correspondence.

Her eyes finally adjusted to the words on the page. If your cucumber is bitter, throw it away.

The words startled her; so flippant, so odd.

She found herself bursting into shocked laughter, and James' eyes were again completely on her. "What are you reading?" He asked curiously and she showed him the book title.

He nodded, thoughtful, as if about to comment on it but shook his head, smiled at her and returned to his correspondence.

She read a few more lines, finding quite a few messages that rang true to her heart,

Whatever the world may say or do, my part is to remain an emerald, and keep my color true.

That was very true, painfully true.

She slowly closed the book, almost not realizing that she was letting her mind drift. For so long now, she'd been fighting against society's expectations; of what being a woman meant, of what she had to do, of what she couldn't do.

And she'd fought against her gift, this fantastic ability that let her speak to the dead. She'd hated it for so long, rebelled against it, and then somehow, it had become the thing that she clung to. The fact that she could see the dead, talk to them, help them, become their mediator with the living had become so very important to her; it gave her life purpose.

She found that James was entirely engrossed in papers upon looking up; it almost seemed like he'd forgotten that she was there, and she took this opportunity to study him.

He was so tall, so broad shouldered. The muscles on his bare forearm rippled as he went through his correspondence, occasionally reaching up to straighten his glasses.

She wanted him, Melinda realized, feeling her mouth go dry. She wanted to find out what it would feel like to have James Clancy make love to her. She wanted to feel his body covering hers. She wanted his hands on her. My god, how much she wanted his hand on her body, on her arm, her shoulders, her thighs...her breasts. She wanted his lips on her neck. She wanted to walk over there right now and just sit on his lap, wind her arms around his neck, snuggle into him and then just kiss him until kissing wasn't enough and he'd make love to her, right there on the desk…

She realized, quite suddenly, that he'd stopped reading and was looking at her looking at him, a quizzical look on his face.

She quickly ducked her head, and he turned away too.

She found a second book; this one she managed to actually lose herself in, as much as she could with James just a few steps away, and they spent quite a pleasant day together in his study.

Even if none of what she wanted to happen did. Even if she spent the entire time wondering what he was thinking, wondering why he didn't desire her, wondering what was wrong with them.

At the same time, it was still nice to just sit in silence, reading and writing, and living in their own little worlds.

At the same time, Melinda didn't want her own world anymore.

They left together, once the butler (Robert?) had come in to tell James that dinner was ready as soon as they dressed for it. James held open the door for her, and she walked close to his body.

As they ascended the stairs, James placed his hand on the small of her back, ever so lightly, very gently. "I'm glad you didn't leave," he said simply, his words a rumble.

Melinda shivered, moving away from his touch to her own door, her hand closing over the knob. "So am I," she told him and ducked inside.

A ladies maid waited there; it seemed James had taken care of that problem.

Melinda sighed.

She didn't want her own world anymore. She wanted to share in his, and she wanted him to share in hers.


	7. Chapter 7

Her new maid helped her dress. Her name was Margaret, and she clicked her tongue when she saw Melinda.

"No corset," she said. "How do you expect to keep your shape? It's all the more important now that you're wed, for soon babies will come, and your figure will never be the same, but you can definitely take precautions."

"I'm not worried about babies right now," Melinda said softly.

Margaret scoffed. "You will be soon," she said, again clicking her tongue, a sound that annoyed Melinda even more the second time.

Melinda didn't reply this time, merely tightened her lips and watched the progress in the mirror. Margaret was very good with hair, and she swept Melinda's brown curls up into a tight topknot, just a few strands escaping.

The dress was rose colored, something her father had had made before the wedding, and it had tight sleeves to the elbow, then large bells which were so long they almost hid Melinda's hand. It made her arms and hands look tiny, Melinda reflected. It was low cut, showing a healthy amount of cleavage, and Melinda sighed when the corset was cinched just a bit tighter for this dress to fit. Of course her father had told the servant to write her measurements one inch lower.

The dress had a wide skirt, which Margaret took a few minutes straightening. "There," she said proudly, huffing a little from exertion.

"I look beautiful," Melinda reflected, a little surprised. "Thank you."

Margaret smiled, for the first time in this conversation. "You gave me much to work with," she said. "Now go, romance your husband."

Melinda blushed hot, going through the door into the hallway.

James stood there, adjusting the cuff on his sleeve. He'd waited to escort her downstairs. His head rose when he heard her footsteps, and she could see him inhale upon seeing her, his eyes suddenly everywhere.

He was at her side in a moment, offering his arm. "You look beautiful," he told her. Her face warmed, and so did something deep in her belly. For the first time, she felt like a newlywed ought to. Excited and nervous.

"So do you," she replied, and he just shook his head as they started down the stairs, her hand firmly on his arm.

"I live to please," he said.

* * *

James wasn't sure what to talk about.

His wife was so beautiful right now, smiling at him, her hair twisted up in an elegant style. He was glad that the new maid was working out. He'd gone to his butler and related the situation as delicately as possible, and Robert had arranged for his cousin to come for a few days. Just until Melinda's usual lady's maid was back.

Now Melinda was sitting there and delicately eating her soup, lifting the spoon to her lips and sipping from it. James found it hard to not watch her, and forced his eyes downward.

"I was reading an interesting account today," he finally said. "I was rather shocked to find that my staff could produce a readable paper without me, but pleased nonetheless."

"Oh?" Melinda said. "You must have trained them well."

James shrugged. "I'll give it to you if you'd like to read it as well," he prefaced. "It was about ghosts."

Melinda's gaze shot to his, her hands freezing.

"And I know your father told me that you have an interest in the occult," James hedged.

"Well, if my father had his information correct and was actually paying attention, then he'd know that I don't have an interest," Melinda scoffed. "It's not a hobby, it's...it's my life. James, I can see ghosts."

"Yes, I believe that's been said before," James said. "Which is why I thought you'd be interested in the article."

She was staring at him in disbelief. "You don't understand," she said, hurt in her voice. "I should have expected this."

"I rather thought it was just an excuse to get out of the house," James said. "I understand, I really do."

"You don't," Melinda snapped, and stood up. Her chair rocked backwards and a footman darted forward to move it further out of her way. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Melinda!" He said, dropping his spoon and standing up with her. He felt stupid, he'd belittled something that—ridiculous though it may be—was important to her. He'd hurt her.

She stared at him, haughtiness in her gaze, a cold, steely anger dulling the usual sparkle in her brown eyes.

"You're right," he began. "I don't understand. So make me."

"I should have to prove myself to you?" She said.

"Not prove," he said, his tone pleading. "You don't have to prove anything. But help me, Melinda. This is a two way street. I cannot possibly begin to understand without your aid. After all, I am not the one who can see ghosts."

Melinda paused. She was taking in his words, how he'd stated that she could see ghosts, not a question, not a guess, not saying that she believed she could. He was stating that she saw ghosts. James wasn't sure about anything right now. He'd never been a firm believer in the occult but he'd never been a firm believer in anything. He'd definitely come across some very disturbing and strange tales in his career as a newspaperman. Tales of candles being lit in a room that no one was in. Tales of items being moved, doors becoming unlocked.

James had no idea what to believe right now, but he knew that he might as well take a chance on his wife.

"What's the story about?" Melinda finally asked, sinking back down into a chair.

"The headline read Harper family aims for family privacy by leaving the city."

"Do you know them?" She wondered.

"I grew up with Steven Harper," he said. "He has two daughters, Natalie and Zoe. Well…" His brow creased. "He had two daughters. Zoe died last year. They've had a rough time since. Natalie…" He bit his lip, trying to figure out how to say this. "She's not doing well."

"What happened?" Melinda said. "Was it consumption?"

"No, no," James corrected. "No, they were swimming and Zoe got washed out to sea."

"That's tragic," Melinda replied, her heart aching for the family. As if summoned by the conversation, Melinda turned and saw a girl standing behind her chair, soaking wet.

"Zoe," she breathed and Zoe turned shocked eyes to meet hers.

"You can see me," she gasped. "You're the first who could see me."

Melinda nodded. James had gotten very quiet at the other end of the table, just watching her.

"Melinda?" He wondered, and she merely held up a hand.

"Melinda?" Zoe asked, her eyes darting to where James sat and then back to Melinda. "Is that your name?"

"Yes," Melinda said. "And you're Zoe?"

"I am," Zoe said. "Oh, Melinda. Can you help me?" Her eyes were anguished.

Melinda knew that James probably thought she was faking. After all, the subject had just come up and he was supposed to believe that Zoe was suddenly in the room with them? That was how the fakes operated.

She wondered what had prompted Zoe to come here. Was it the newspaper article? That could have triggered something.

"I can," Melinda told her. "But not now. Tomorrow morning."

Zoe hesitated, wanting to protest. "Tomorrow morning," she agreed.

Melinda turned back to James. "We are entertaining company," she told him. "Zoe is here. I told her I would help her tomorrow."

He took a sip of wine; maybe more than a sip, and then just nodded. "I'll drive you," he told her. "Wherever you need to go."

She felt the weight of the words sink in. Professor Payne had never offered that. He was more interested in Melinda than in the ghosts.

She turned back to dinner, subdued, feeling James' eyes on her.

"Your brother was at the wedding," she finally said, and James inhaled sharply. "Daniel. He wanted me to tell you how proud he is of you."

James was shaking his head; now came the disbelief.

"He said that what happened with him wasn't your fault," she continued. "What did happen? All he said was that he fell."

The wine glass slid from James' hand. Robert rushed forward to clean the mess but James waved him back, telling him to leave.

Robert did so, closing the door behind him.

And they were alone.

James stood up, and Melinda could barely breathe. He looked so sharp in that suit.

James walked to the bar cart, pouring himself a drink of something stronger and staring into the flames of the fireplace.

She wondered if he'd speak again. She hoped he would. Had she gone too far? 

"He said, if he could do it over again, he wouldn't change a thing," she told him, pushing her chair back. "He misses you, though. He misses your mother. I think your father has already crossed over. He said that Patches was waiting for your father when he passed and that they crossed together."

James was shaking his head. "Patches was my father's dog," he said, turning to face her. His lips were white, and his hand was shaking. "Melinda, please be telling the truth."

"I am," she said simply, standing up. "I spoke to your brother, he stood next to me, had a conversation with me, just as we are now. He didn't like me, not entirely." She swallowed. "He said you deserve someone who loves you as much as Mimi loved Arthur."

"Jesus," James swore. "Melinda, don't do this to me. Who did you speak to? Why do you know this?"

"Daniel," she said simply. "That's who I spoke to."

He stared at her, breathing hard. "Is he here now?"

"No," she said simply. "Just Zoe, and she's leaving now."

James strode forward, and she had no idea what to do, what to expect. He neared her, and she stepped back, falling back into her chair, settling hard.

He knelt before her, hands clinging to hers, face anguished. "He forgave me?" He wondered, lips just an inch from her.

"He only had love for you in his heart," she told him. "No resentment, no bitterness. Just love and how much he missed you."

"Oh my god," he said, and covered his face in her lap. She could feel the hot tears, and how heavy his head was in her lap. She stroked at his hair; it was silky soft, and so black. Like a raven's wings.

She ached for him. She wanted to make him feel better. She wanted to soothe him.

Her small hands kept stroking his head, and she leaned to kiss the back of his head, her breasts coming into contact with his forehead when she did.

The moment changed hues entirely.

James rose his head, staring up at her, weariness in his eyes, and...and something else.

His big arms came up, his hands brushed over her arms, and then he was pulling her close, and her eyes drifted shut, and his lips touched hers.

It was a warm, lazy kiss, that turned to one filled with desperation and need.

His mouth was so hot, and he was so warm, and Melinda slid from her chair to kneel before him, and then he was bringing them down, lowering her to soft carpet in front of the fireplace, and they just lay there, kissing for what seemed like an eternity.

After a long, sweet time, his hands started to drift down, skate over her waist and down to her hip. She sighed, raising her hips a little as if by instinct, and she wanted his weight on her; he was being so careful to keep off of her.

She wanted to feel him, she wanted his heady embrace.

She wanted him.

He was pulling away though, regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I don't know what came over me."

The words were a slap in the face.


	8. Chapter 8

James' hand was on her shoulder, and then he was helping her up.

Zoe had crossed over, and it had taken a lot out of Melinda. All of the past few days had taken a lot out of her.

This was the first time she'd crossed over anyone in a very long time. She hadn't dared. Her father had pretty much forbade her, and even once she'd gone to see Professor Payne, he'd

been more interested in Melinda, and not in the ghosts she was helping.

Which had been odd, and not what she'd been expecting.

What was more odd, however, was James' willingness in helping Melinda. He'd contacted the Harpers, and made sure she could visit with Natalie. He'd defended her when Mrs. Harper had flown at her, and he'd quietly testified his belief in his wife's abilities.

The past few days had changed Melinda's whole life. Zoe was at peace, and, for perhaps the first time in her life, Melinda was also.

"Are you alright?" James asked, quietly drawing her closer.

"I am," she said. "I still need a moment."

He nodded.

Natalie drew forward, hands outstretched. "Thank you," she whispered. "For being the first person to believe me. For helping us. I don't have to go to the asylum now."

Melinda just nodded, taking the girl's hand and squeezing it.

James' arm was still around her, and they soon made farewells, before leaving. Mr. Harper let them take his carriage to the train station; they had a long journey back to the city.

Once in the carriage, they fell silent again. Melinda wondered, not for the first time, why James hadn't just driven them in his automobile, but she quieted herself. It was odd to accustom herself to a carriage once more.

She realized, with a start, that the Harpers were right next to Rockland U. They'd gotten off at a different stop, and she'd been so distracted with Zoe that she hadn't noticed earlier, but now…

"James," she cried, sitting up straight on her seat. Across from her, he started. "Rockland University is only a few minutes ride from here. Could we not stop?"

She could tell he wanted to say no, but he merely tapped the ceiling and forthwith told the driver to change his route.

She now felt like she had to talk, like she couldn't be silent, as though she must explain herself.

"I haven't spoken to Professor Payne in quite a while now," she told him. "We were working on a project when I last saw him, and I've been aching to know the results."

"What kind of project?" James asked, voice casual.

"We're trying to figure out why some of my ghosts aren't crossing over," she said. "He thinks there's someone gathering them, trying to make them subservient. We were studying dark and light spirits, but, James, I fear we did not get very far."

"I can imagine," he murmured.

Silence fell again. The countryside turned into the college town, and then the university itself was in front of them. James got out, and turned to extend his hand to her, a hand she eagerly took; probably the most readily she'd ever touched him.

She was so excited to see Professor Payne, she so wanted to know what else he'd been working on, what else he'd found out.

Surely he'd be so much farther along now, she thought, taking James' arm and speaking in hushed tones to let him know where to go.

Soon they were outside of Professor Payne's office, and she found herself drawing ahead, knocking on his door herself.

It flew open a moment later, and the man stood there himself.

"Melinda!" He cried, before seeing James standing behind her. "Mrs. Clancy, I should say. Mr. Clancy, my...pleasure."

"No, mine," James said coolly. Silence.

"May we come in, just for a moment?" Melinda finally asked. "I do hate to interrupt you, Richard."

* * *

Richard.

It was the final nail in the coffin. James had a rather pronounced headache now, the name of the headache was Melinda Clancy.

The past few days had been intense, to say the least. He'd been plunged into a world that he didn't know or understand, and explanations had been minimal. She'd tried to let him in, tried to illuminate him, but there was still a barrier, and James was still struggling. She'd been withdrawn, as well, since the night she'd spoken to him about Daniel, the same night that he'd pawed at her like a randy schoolboy.

God, he couldn't believe himself. He should never have let himself get so carried away, even if he had had too much wine, even if Daniel had been a hard subject to bear. Melinda hadn't deserved that kind of treatment, and he doubted she'd much wanted it either.

Besides talking to him about the supernatural, she hadn't much spoken to him. She'd avoided touch, and he felt only more guilty about how things had happened as the days passed.

He'd tried to take care of everything for her with the Harpers, tried to take on the brunt of their scorn, tried to make it easier, let her know that he was there, and that he wasn't going to make her do this alone. Besides. How else should a man spend his honeymoon.

And now, this was the first real life she'd shown in days, the first spirit. And why?

Because she got to see Richard. Professor Payne.

That stung.

The professor let them into his office, making vague apologies for the mess.

"I must confess, I did not think to see you much," the professor told Melinda.

"Well, we were in the neighborhood," Melinda said. "Professor, I have assisted another spirit into the light. This is my first in a long time, but James aided me."

She nodded at James, whose breath caught from how pleased she sounded; how grateful.

"Good for you," the professor replied, answer short.

"How are you?" Melinda questioned, worrying her lip.

"I'm fine."

"I must say, I am so curious and apprehensive about the results of our project," she said. "Has anyone written back?"

Silence.

"I have received a lot of mail," Professor Payne replied, going to sit at his desk. "I haven't opened any of it."

James heard her inhalation.

"Are you alright?" She wondered.

"I am quite fine," he replied. "I just haven't had any inclination to open my mail."

"Oh," she said, and James could see how puzzled she was.

James himself did not wish to be crude, even in thought, but he knew exactly what had happened. Professor Payne hadn't been half as interested in the occult as much as he had been interested in Melinda herself, and now that Melinda was married, he wasn't interested in either.

Especially not with her husband standing not two feet away.

"Mel-Mrs. Clancy," Professor Payne began.

That brought up another topic. He'd begun to call her Melinda, not Miss Gordon? That kind of faux pas was almost unforgivable.

James began to wonder now, about just how close their relationship had gotten.

Dear god. Had it been physical?

He tried to tell himself it didn't matter. Whatever had happened before now, their slates were wiped clean. It wasn't as though James had never touched a woman before Melinda.

But neither had he brought them to visit.

He laughed at himself. Melinda wasn't so clueless as to bring her husband to her former lover's office. Or...was she just clever enough to do so? 

God, he was being horribly paranoid.

He could now see the hurt in his wife's eyes, could see her drawing back.

"I don't believe you'd better come back," Professor Payne continued. "Our project and partnership has reached an end, so far as I am concerned. I am sorry that you thought differently."

Melinda stared at the man, jaw dropped. "Professor, I thought...but what about the dark and light spirits?"

Payne shrugged. "Miss Gordon, damn it, Mrs. Clancy, Mr. Clancy, I'm afraid I really don't have time." He turned to his desk, abruptly picking up a book. "Good day. I trust you can show yourselves out."

James realized he hadn't spoken a word, and he didn't now. He merely met his wife's hurt gaze and took her arm in his, and escorted her out.

* * *

Silence.

"I don't understand," Melinda finally spoke, once they were drawing near to the carriage.

"Men are proud creatures," James said. "Professors especially."

She drew her brows together, wondering how that followed.

"I think it hurt him to see you wed," he said baldly.

"But he came to the engagement party, and besides, what difference does that make?" Melinda wondered, turning to James and stopping their progress.

"Melinda, my dear, did you never sense his interest in you?" James wondered.

"Well, of course he was interested in me, I was a living experiment for him," she snapped, knowing that James didn't deserve her anger, but she had nowhere else to turn it to.

"Interest other than academic," James finished. "I do believe he had feelings for you. It probably wasn't very sensitive to come by his office as you did, husband in tow."

She didn't understand his words, and she didn't like them.

"He knew my circumstances," she snapped. "It was marry you or be cast out."

James blinked, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

She wondered how that must have sounded to his ears, and regretted her words. "James, I didn't mean it like that," she whispered.

"I can't imagine there's another way you meant it, Melinda, and it is merely the truth, after all." His words were clipped, and they started walking again. He no longer was patient, no longer let her dawdle.

They were at the carriage in just moments after that, and James opened the door, holding out his hand for her to take.

She hesitated, staring up at him from below her hat, meeting his gaze.

For perhaps the first time since she'd known him, his eyes were cold. So cold.

She wanted to tell him that she hadn't meant it, but she'd already done so, and besides, as he'd said, it was true.

Or was it true?

She remembered those confusing days before the wedding, not even that long ago, just last week. She tried to recall her feelings then, and she tried to match them with her feelings now.

What did she think of him?

What did she feel about Professor Payne, as well? Was it true that the man had feelings for her? She dully remembered certain moments, registering them a new, and realized he had indeed been interested.

But suddenly, he didn't matter much to her. As hurt as she was by what had just transpired, she was suddenly more worried about James, more conscious of what had just happened in her marriage than she was about some silly professor. So maybe she'd never see him again. That was lamentable, but what if she'd just ruined everything with James?

What if everything was already ruined?

She didn't know what to do, and James was waiting so patiently.

God, he was so patient. He was so kind, and so generous, and it was like she was discovering him a new.

But here he was, raising an eyebrow. "May we depart, or do you wish to return to your professor?" He finally asked.

That broke her. She'd fancied herself in love with him, for just a moment, and now that spell ended. She shook her head, shook the feelings off, angrily pushed past his open hand and clambered into the carriage unaided, awkward in her movements.

They didn't speak for the whole ride back. She swept up to her bedroom in a cold huff, didn't join him for dinner, and she didn't see him the next morning, or the next afternoon, realizing a little too late that a week had passed.

He'd gone back to work.

Dear god. This house was so big now, so empty.

She was so lonely.

A/N: Because here's the thing with Rick. Yes, he wants to fight for Melinda, yes, he wishes that she was still in his life, but he knows what kind of relationship he'd wanted with her. And in this unverse, Kate still cheated on him. He won't make James go through the pain he did.


	9. Chapter 9

She was alone again, and Melinda didn't like it. She wondered what high society women did all day, trying to remember. They called on friends, she supposed. They planned parties, they planned dinners for their husbands.

Well, only one of those was an option.

She asked the cook what James' favorite meal was, and the lady answered; she told her that that was to be the menu today.

The maids were asked to clean the house, and Melinda herself nervously went upstairs as the hour approached; he was typically home by six-thirty, she'd been informed by Robert.

Margaret helped her dress in a red dress that clung to every inch of her, something that Melinda privately thought too tight, but dismissed the notion, struggling for breath as Margaret pulled her stays tighter.

Her decolletage was fairly overflowing the bodice, and she flushed a little, looking at the ringlets of hair escaping her topknot. Jewelry was placed around her neck, and she finally made her way out of her door, just as James exited his. He must have gotten home early, because he was already fully dressed for dinner, only pausing to adjust his cuff.

Dear god, he was so handsome her breath caught. His eyes met hers; cool and unfeeling. "Melinda," he said, nodding courteously.

She nodded back, her eyes drinking him in. She'd missed him, she remembered, her heart panging. She'd missed him dearly, without even realizing how much pain his absence had caused.

It had felt like he'd left her forever, and not just gone to work.

He finished with his cuff, and stepped forward, offering his arm to her. They descended the stairs together, in silence.

Dinner was courteous, but nearly silent, with only murmurs on the food. James seemed vaguely pleased with what was served, but he also didn't seem to know what he was eating, and Melinda died inside with every cool stare.

It was like he'd stopped even trying, stopped trying to care, stopped trying to make this work, stopped wanting it to work.

He'd stopped liking her, just turned it off.

That scared her, knowing how utterly dispensable she was to him.

* * *

His hands were shaking, he reflected dully, taking another sip of wine. Across the table, he'd never seen Melinda so displayed as she was now. The dress was red, and dear god, she should wear red all the time. Her cleavage was milky and smooth, and he only wanted to bury his face in those round globes.

Her waist was so small, something that made him frown because she was pressing at her sides every few minutes, as if trying to draw breath. He needed to tell her that it wasn't necessary. He knew her figure was fucking amazing without the stays. He'd seen it on their wedding night.

What else had he seen on their wedding night? Her hips, her ass, her bare skin. He remembered those moments with his eyes shut tight, listening to her disrobe.

He couldn't remember ever having been so erect, or so needing release.

He wanted to be inside of her, he reflected. He wanted the heat of her core, he wanted to feel how silky her thighs were. He wanted to make her cry out his name, finally admitting that he was the only one who could ever make her feel like this. He wanted to take her to another world, one she probably didn't know even existed.

She was so cold, his wife. Dressed like this, teasing every inch of him, making his body literally ache from the strain of wanting her, while knowing full well he could never have her.

* * *

Melinda woke up alone the next morning, and the days repeated themselves. Sometimes James was late; without fail he'd send word and dinner would be pushed later. They always dined together, and on Sunday he asked her preference as to which service to attend.

They saw her father at church, something which surprised Melinda; he was by no means a faithful churchgoer, but she hid it well, merely greeting him. He looked worried, as though he was searching for a sign from her that she was happy, that she was alright, that James was being good to her.

As though it possibly mattered to her father.

She smiled brightly and clung to James' arm, ignoring every searching gaze her father shot her way.

He deserved nothing.

* * *

Melinda realized quickly that she had to change her plans. James' library was fine, but had plain and clear limits, and she quickly bored. There weren't even spirits around to take up her time; how was that even possible? There were always spirits, but they were conspicuously avoiding her presence and she cursed them.

She reached her limits and finally, mid the second week, she decided to go and see Richard.

She needed to speak to him with James not present; she now recognized how foolish that had been. Richard was such a reticent man, and of course he wouldn't speak in the presence of a stranger.

Robert drove her to the train station and Melinda boarded alone, relishing in being a married woman.

She no longer needed a chaperone.

The trip to Rockland U seemed to fly by; she was dreading it, just a little, scared of what his response would be, and her stomach was in knots by the time she reached his office.

Her knock was soft, and his reply was anything but, and suddenly they were face to face.

"Melinda," he whispered, shocked to his core, and she merely nodded, stepping inside.

She was suddenly conscious of the outfit she'd chosen to wear; a fitted suit, with a slimmer skirt than she'd worn before marriage. It seemed as though Richard's gaze lingered at her hips, and he seemed entranced.

"I'm sorry about what I said," he told her.

"I'm sorry for coming by, as I did," she replied. "It was awkward all around."

"I didn't know what to tell you," he admitted. "I haven't done a damn thing, I've had no desire to work on the project without you."

"But it's so vital to find out what's happening in the spirit world," she said. "I don't understand most of my gift, that much is evident, and I just need a little help. I'm afraid of what might be to come."

He sighed, throwing up his hands. "I...I don't believe in it," he said honestly. "I believed in you, kind of. For a moment or two. But I mainly just liked you coming to visit me and...told you what you wanted to hear."

She sat down rather heavily. He'd never believed her. He'd never cared.

He'd never wept as James had, overcome with belief. He'd never taken her somewhere to prove his belief, he'd never shown her off, proclaimed to the world that his wife could speak to the dead, unashamed and proud. He'd hidden her away, and he'd wanted her for himself.

Richard was still speaking but she left his office in a daze, ignoring his words. He had no meaning left for her.

She just wanted James. And this time, she wasn't afraid of letting him know how she felt. She was going to tell him every word that was currently burning in her heart, she was going to be completely and totally honest about how he made her feel.

Daniel suddenly appeared next to her, distorted and worried. "Melinda!"

"Daniel," she said, faltering.

"James is in trouble," he said. "Oh god. I see him."

She knew what his words meant and her heart froze. "What do you mean?" She wondered, voice aching, looking around her.

"Hurry, or you'll be late," Daniel hissed, and disappeared.

* * *

She went to his office first. She wasn't even sure of how to get there, but she took the first train back to the city and told the first hack she saw to take her to the newspaper.

She got out in a rush, hurrying up the stairs, ignoring the stares of the men inside, and the angry cry of the guard at the door.

Editor

She saw the word as though a mile off, instantly attuned to what it meant. James.

She moved forward, but it was locked, and she turned around desperately, scared to her core.

"Where is Mr. Clancy?" She asked, now letting the huffing guard catch up to her.

"Who's asking?" He wondered, and she rose to her full height, still a foot below him but not caring.

"I'm his wife, and tell me where I can find him, for god's sake," she snapped.

The man's eyes widened, his lips moving to usher an apology and she brushed it aside. "Where is he?" She begged.

"He might be at his club," the man stammered.

"Please get me a cab that will go there," she requested, and he did as she bade.

The whole ride was a blur, and she was finally at the club. Here she wasn't so lucky. There was a doorman, and he was quite insistent that she was not to be allowed inside.

"No women allowed," he snapped.

"Can you at least tell me if my husband is inside?" She begged.

"I suggest you go home and wait for him, where you belong," he replied. "Madame, please leave before I must call the police. You are making a scene."

Her life was crumbling and Melinda couldn't make sense of anything. Noise was magnified and every step made her dizzy, and she was falling to the sidewalk, on her knees.

* * *

James knew he was late, but he was hard pressed to care, looking out the window at the dull world.

He just wanted to go home, to Melinda, to crawl into bed with her and kiss her until she gave in to him. That was wrong. He wanted to go home and have her be waiting for him, open her arms to him, beg him to take her.

He was nearing the club, and he saw a lady talking with the doorman; he was as much a suffragette as a man could be, but he didn't understand why they insisted on making scenes.

And then she turned around and his heart stopped.

Melinda.

She was walking down the steps, back to the sidewalk. Dear god, she had to be looking for him, what else could bring her here? 

He jumped from the carriage, ignoring the startled shouts of the cabman, running forward just in time to catch his wife as she fell.

And she was staring up at him, her eyes so huge.

"James," she whispered, clinging to him, her tiny hands tight on his arms. "You aren't dead?"

"I'm not dead," he told her, wondering why she'd thought such a thing, but not mocking it. "I'm very alive, as proved by how hard my heart is beating to see you like this."

She was pushing herself towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing herself to him.

"James, I'm so grateful," she said, close to tears; he could hear it in her voice. "I've missed you so much the past week, I can't bear that empty house, and you're so unfriendly when you come home for dinner, but James, I miss the way it was. Reading together in your library."

She was clinging to him, so tightly, her body flattening against his. "James, I love you," she whispered in his ear, and dear god, were those her lips on the lobe? Was that her tongue snaking inside?

He couldn't believe what he was hearing, what she was saying. He opened his mouth to speak, but her hand was there, her littlest finger stilling his words.

She pulled back, just a little, eyes burning as she looked at him.

"James, I want you to take me to bed," she told him, tossing her head, her eyes daring him to speak.

He tried to speak, but this time he found that he couldn't. His mouth was open, but his heart was pounding in his ears, and he was almost incapable of thought even.

"James," she purred, moving in closer again, her breasts touching his arm; that was definitely intentional. "Please take me home to bed."

She didn't have to tell him a third time.


	10. Chapter 10

James gathered her into his arms, picking her up entirely, sweeping her off her feet, cradling her to his chest. She felt like a bride, for the first time. She felt as though a bride ought to on her wedding night, excited and nervous but with desire pounding in her veins, with pleasure on the horizon.

She ignored the fact that they were in the middle of the city, leaning to kiss behind his ear again. "Please, James," she whispered. "Hurry."

The cab he'd jumped out of was still waiting for payment, and James just climbed in with her, barking the direction to the driver and closing the door, drawing the blinds close behind them.

And they were alone. She felt his gaze on her, she felt his determination falter, she felt him hesitate.

She didn't want him to hesitate.

He was seated next to her, staring at her, and she brushed aside all of her doubts and climbed into his lap, her legs spreading wide, her skirt giving easily. She was straddling him fully, and she could feel something growing rock hard between her thighs, and pure instinct made her grind against it.

James moaned aloud, and Melinda silenced his moan by placing her hands on his face and kissing him. She was done waiting. Every time they had made physical contact the past few weeks, it had been unbelievable. Even that day they'd gone on an automobile ride, the contact, the glances, how much she'd been tempted by him when she didn't even want to like him.

His lips were hot, and she was moving her hands over his face, feeling every inch of skin. She wanted to kiss every inch of him, she wanted this moment to last forever. Her arms were around his neck now, holding him close, her tongue was sliding between his lips and they were tasting each other, and he was so hungry, and he was now coming alive, returning every motion in kind. His hands were on her waist, and then his hands were on her breasts, and he was cupping them through all of her stupid layers, pressing them together.

She was the one to moan now, and she returned his wicked torture in kind, again grinding her hips down, feeling his length beneath her swell, buck even nearer to her.

And James was groaning, grabbing her hands in his, lifting them above her head, making her breasts rise and heave. "Melinda," he hissed, pulling away. "Let me look at you, let me torture you as much as you torture me."

She could barely breathe, and his eyes were so dark they were almost black right now. "I wish to take this off," he said, freeing one hand to run down her raised arms; her wrists were still locked in his other hand. His free fingers came down to her neckline, brushing over the lace there and the inch of exposed skin. "Melinda," he purred, his fingers tugging the lace down as far as it could go. "I'm not sure I can wait until we're home to see you bared to me, but I will wait, knowing it is coming."

His head lowered, his lips landing on her collarbone, hot, demanding, and he sucked at it; she knew he'd leave a mark.

She wanted to touch him as well, her hips nudging against his length again, and he hissed again, his hands tightening on her wrists to the point of almost pain. "Melinda, let me give you this," he told her, his lips moving to her ear, nipping at the earlobe, his tongue snaking inside as hers had done earlier, making her keen. "I love when you make that noise," he told her, his voice a whisper, making her shiver from how close he was to her ear. "How can I have you make it again?"

His free hand had dropped down to her clothed hips, back to her ass, and he cupped one cheek, squeezing hard, an entirely new sensation that she'd never even wondered about or longed for, but now she only wanted it again, and again. "My god, James," she told him, and he paused, drawing back to look at her in wonder.

"Is this real?" He wondered, his voice suddenly vulnerable, shocked, wondering.

She nodded, and then spoke. "James, I didn't know this even existed," she told him. "These feelings, this kind of moment. I just didn't know it was real, I've doubted love for all of my life, I've never seen it presented like this, and here we are, and here you are." 

She leaned in to kiss him, straining against the hand that still held her wrists together. "You are like no man I've ever known," she told him. "And I love you for it."

* * *

Melinda was on his lap, and she was saying such words, and she was being such a seductive creature, and he almost didn't recognize her, and yet this was the woman he'd been seeking all along, the woman he knew existed, the woman he'd been searching for since that moment in her father's study when they'd first met each other.

He'd known, in that moment, what kind of passion she was capable of. But he'd begun to doubt that he'd ever unearth it, that he would be the one to free that passion.

His lips touched hers again, and moved to her ear. "I have loved you since the day I saw you," he told her, his voice but a whisper. "Since you burst into your father's study."

She almost laughed, but his free hand landed on her thigh, and began to draw her skirts up, and the laugh turned into a gasp. Her ankle was revealed, and her knees, and finally her thighs, where her stockings ended and bare skin began.

And his fingers were touching her naked thighs, encircling them, stroking across them. "Melinda," he wondered, his hands slowly snaking upwards. "Has any man ever touched you here?"

His hands were inside her bloomers, and she knew his destination, but she still gasped, bucking against him, bucking away from him, when he touched her there.

Another rush of wetness came, making her core even hotter.

He moaned at the feel of her, and she moaned at his touch. "Melinda," he crooned, his hand on her wrists growing tighter, as his other fingers slipped inside her, felt her walls.

"James," she gasped, barely able to breathe.

"Tell me," he whispered.

"You're the only man," she told him, shifting in an effort to deepen his fingers inside her.

"You're so impatient," he replied, and suddenly his fingers were gone, and he was smoothing her skirts, pulling them down, releasing her wrists.

The carriage was slowing, she realized, coming back down to earth. Dear god. There was more to come. It got better than this.

James licked his fingers clean as she watched, and then leaned in and kissed her hungrily, and she licked at his lips, only wanting more of him.

He carefully lifted her off of his lap, settling her onto the seat beside him.

"Do you see this?" He questioned, and looked down at his lap. "This is what you do to me, and soon I'll show you what I can do."

She couldn't breathe, but she reached out with one hand, placing it on his length, and he groaned, obviously not expecting this.

"Am I the only woman who's ever touched you here?" She wondered, stroking up and down through his trousers.

"No," he told her, and his eyes blazed open. "But you are the first it has meant something with, and you are the only woman I ever want to touch me again."

She nodded, squeezing a little. "Remember that," she told him. "The one decision of yours I won't abide by is unfaithfulness."

His eyes were truly black now, and he painfully reached with one hand to take her hand in his own. "I think we're close," he told her, kissing her hand, kissing each individual finger.

She nodded, and the carriage slowed to a stop. He drew back the blind and his house was outside.

Melinda had never felt so impatient.

He jumped from the carriage, paying the driver before turning back to her, holding out one hand for her to take. She placed her hand in his eagerly, stepping from the carriage, and he surprised her by once again sweeping her into his arms. She laughed aloud in surprise, and he leaned to give her smiling lips a kiss.

Robert opened the door before they got there, James' strong legs carrying him up the steps in seconds, and he swept past the butler, tightening his hold as he carried her over the threshold.

One set of stairs were left, and James didn't hesitate, moving swiftly. She moved to kiss his neck, and he was at his bedroom door, hesitating; she used her free hand to twist the knob and he smiled at her.

She'd never felt such love for another human being, such desire to help.

He was moving inside, and kicking the door decidedly shut behind him, carefully lowering her to the bed.

"Melinda," he whispered, kneeling before her. "Let me help you undress."

She only nodded, watching as he carefully undid her boots, resting them on his knee one at a time as he untied them.

He pulled them off and carefully placed them aside, his hands raising the hem of her dress to the top of her stockings. He carefully unbuckled them and slid the stockings down, one by one, and the erotic feel of his hands on her legs almost made her lose herself.

"James," she whispered, and he kissed the inside of her ankle, lifting her leg.

"Let me do this," he requested, and she nodded, settling back.

His hands came up to her jacket, and he stood up now, holding out his hands and she took them, letting him help her up. He slid her jacket off, placing it carefully on a nearby chair, and then he turned her around, his hands going to the buttons going down her back.

One button, and two. Every inch of skin that was revealed earned a warm kiss from him, and then his hands rested on her waist, and she leaned against him, and he paused in his efforts, relishing this quiet moment.

"I love you," he told her in a hushed voice.

"I love you," she replied, and his hands squeezed her waist, before sliding her bodice down, tugging the sleeves off, and her basque was tossed aside.

She still had layers to go, but he was sitting on the bed now, spreading his legs, and she stepped between them, her breasts rising high above her corset and now only covered by lace.

Her hips were closed in by his thighs and his hands came again to cup her ass, squeezing the cheeks, lifting them, and his face gladly buried itself in her welcoming breasts. Her hands tangled in his hair, relishing in its softness.

She did love him.

And now his hands came to her corset strings, untying them, freeing her. The corset was thrown away, and he paused for a moment, his hands coming to her now untied waist. "Melinda, you really don't need a corset, and especially not so tight," he told her. "You're so beautiful."

His hands swept up, his thumbs brushing over her hardened and almost visible nipples; she could see his gaze pause on her breasts, and his thumb went over one nipple again, making it even more stiff against the lace.

He leaned forward, pulling said nipple into his mouth, and his mouth was so hot, and her nipple so aching, and oh god, his tongue brushed against it, and he tugged at it, and the lace was in the way, but he was pulling away, his hands on her ass again.

"I want to spend all day on these," he told her. "But we have more places to uncover."

He squeezed, and she moaned, and his hands were suddenly up at her hair, carefully pulling the pins from it, one by one.

She felt the relief as they came out, and soon her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

"I'm getting this much closer to freeing you," he murmured, and she took his off guard moment to push on his chest, shoving him flat on his back, and climbing onto him, straddling him once more and placing her hands on either side of his head, taking control.

Her breasts were right there, inches from his chest and his face, and he was frozen, waiting to see what she'd do.

And she kissed him, deeply, passionately, and his hands were on his waist, coming to sweep over her hips, and then one arm wound around her waist, effortlessly switching their positions and he was on top, leaning over her, pulling away.

"I think it's time to get a few of your layers off," she told him, her hand touching his face.

He groaned, and leaned to kiss her again, before pulling away, lying on the bed, letting her move away from him and take control again. "I give you full control," he told her, and she nodded, wondering where to start.

Her fingers finally went to his cravat, her fingers swiftly undoing it and sliding it from his neck. "Sit up," she requested, and he did so, and she moved behind him to tug off his jacket, placing it over hers on the chair.

And now she sat straddling one leg, her fingers swiftly unbuttoning his shirt and tugging it from his trousers, and sliding it from him. One more undershirt, which James moved to take off himself, muscles rippling, and then he was bare before her.

She'd seen naked men in paintings, but she'd never imagined them like this. His chest was beautiful, muscled, but not overly so, and she saw his flat nipples. Her thumbs brushed over them like he'd done to hers, and he gasped.

Her lips closed over one, and she let her tongue taste one, and she spent a long time getting to know his chest, and stroking his arms, and making good on that wish to taste every inch.

And then they were back to wanting more. He was growing impatient, and she let him take control once more, unhooking her skirt and soon she was out of it.

Petticoat went the same way, and now she was left in her bloomers and a thin lace bodice.

One thin layer covered her skin.

His shoes were taken off, his socks. He was tugging his trousers off, and she was so impatient, and he stood before her in his underwear, and the bulge between his legs seemed even bigger now.

Oh dear god.

Was she ready for this?

Where did that go?

He moved forward, but she stepped back, and he paused, his eyes meeting hers.

"Do you need a minute?" He wondered.

"No," she told him. "But I want to do this…"

She slowly pulled the bodice over her head, leaving her topless before him, her breasts springing from it, free now. And she slipped out of her bloomers, and she was now naked.

Naked and vulnerable.

He recognized the moment, and he slid his underwear off, and he was naked too. She wasn't sure what she'd imagined his manhood to look like, but here it was, and she slid down to her knees, her hands gently stroking it, and she looked up at him, lust in her eyes, and slid it into her mouth.

It was too big for much but she got the head, and her tongue swept over it, and he was gasping, and then lifting her up, laying her on the bed, spreading her legs.

His mouth went straight to her core, to the curls there, and his tongue was inside her, hot and wet. She moaned, and he laughed inside her, sitting up and his hands were on her breasts now.

It was playtime. His mouth captured her nipples, and his hands were squeezing her breasts together, and cupping them, testing their weight.

She was in control, playing with his length, touching him, making him shudder, and it was good.

His fingers slid inside of her again, and playtime stopped. She felt them moving, and it was good, it was pleasurable, and then oh god, it was more than pleasurable. "James," she gasped, the first time he touched it, and he merely kissed one breast, and moved his fingers again, increasing the pressure, increasing the speed.

She didn't know what was coming, but she knew it was going to be good but she didn't know how to get there. And James' fingers were so good, but she needed more and it was like an itch she couldn't scratch, and she was writhing, twisting on the bed, bucking against his fingers, and her hands were clutching at his shoulders.

His mouth descended again, pressing hot kisses on her thighs, and his tongue was sweeping on the innermost part of her thigh, and she couldn't breathe and then his mouth was there again and she desperately wanted his tongue there, on that spot, on the place he was touching to make her world break, and she almost wanted to cry, this was so good and she didn't know how to process it, how to react, and all of her emotions were tangled up and warring and so goddamn confusing.

And his mouth was on her, and his tongue was there, and she was screaming his name, and suddenly she knew what to do, and she let go, surrendering herself to him, and her world was exploding, crying his name.

She slowly came back to earth, and James was looking at her, so satisfied.

"Let me do the same," she requested, and he shook his head.

"I want you to," he said. "But I have something different in mind. Do you trust me?"

"I do," she whispered. "Kiss me, James. Please."

"Always," he told her, and leaned in, their lips touching. Her hands came to his neck and they kissed for a long time, losing themselves, and his hands were so warm.

"Will you touch me?" He requested. "As you did before?"

She nodded, her hands sliding to grasp his manhood, and soon he was pulsing in her hands, big and ready.

"Are you ready?" He asked, and slid from her grasp, spreading her thighs open wide. He was moving his hips into the space, and she knew, somehow, what was to come.

His length was poised at her entrance. "It's going to hurt," he told her.

"I'll manage," she replied. "Just go slowly."

He nodded, and slowly eased into her.

He was big. He felt too big to fit, and she was uncomfortable. Inch by inch, not even inch, more like quarter inch…

Slowly, so slowly, he eased into her warmth, careful to not go too fast. She could see the pleasure and concentration on his face, and while it still only felt odd for her, she could tell it felt incredible for him.

She moved her hips, and he went farther, and she gasped, but she moved again, pressing into him, and this hurt.

"Melinda, let me go slowly," he began, but she grasped his shoulders, keeping him there.

"I can take you," she told him, and arched her hips again, enveloping him as much as she could.

And there was pain, and she winced, but she moved again, and it was passing. He was kissing her, kissing her lips, her face, her neck, her ears, her eyes. "Melinda, I love you," he was saying, over and over, and she was moving now, and so was he, easing out from you and plunging inside of her with one movement and this felt good.

The pain was gone and it still felt odd, but somehow she only wanted more of him, ached for more, and welcomed the feel of him.

And they were in harmony, up and down and she loved this now, it felt better and less odd every time he moved back into her, and her legs were wrapped around his waist, and he was going faster now, barely breathing, and then oh, god, she felt another wave of heat rising in her.

"James, please, god, just a bit more," she was panting, and he was groaning, and she clenched her legs, gasping at the renewed sensations, and he swore.

"Melinda, you're going to kill me," he hissed. "Don't fucking stop though."

And she renewed her efforts, tightening herself around him, and she found her own release, and she was calling his name again, feeling herself shatter, and he'd found his climax, and she felt him explode into her, crying her name.

She felt dazed, and he started to pull out, but she clung tight. "I want you inside me," she murmured, and he only nodded, collapsing on her chest, covered in sweat.

His head was on her breasts, and she stroked at his chair, as their breathing began to slow.

And then he pulled out, but only so he could lay next to her, pulling her tight.

And he kissed her now, her neck, her shoulders; she twisted her head so her lips could meet his, and his hands were cupping her breasts, his hands slid down to her hips, and he was so content, and happy, and she was delirious, almost, in the bliss of this moment.

"My god, Melinda," he told her. "You are too good to exist in this world."

She grew serious now, and rolled over so she was facing him, still cradled by his arms. "You realize you're the first person to ever believe in me," she told him, her fingers idly stroking his chest. "You not only believed me, you knew my message from Daniel was only truth." Her eyes filled with tears. "And you took me to the Harpers and defended me to them, and you stood by my side and you helped me through it, and James, no one has ever done that for me. No one has ever been on my side, or thought I even had a side."

He pulled her close, kissing her forehead, folding her into his chest. "Melinda, I don't think I knew what love was before I met you," he whispered. "I definitely didn't know what sex could be."

She buried her face in his chest, hiding her tears, letting them dry.

And life was good, simple and easy. It was just James and Melinda, lying in bed together.

"I wish it hadn't taken so long for me to see you as you are," she whispered. "Kind and wonderful."

James kissed her forehead again. "You know," he said, voice a rumble. "Why did you marry me? Was I really just a ticket out of your father's household?"

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't part of it," she said honestly, one hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscle there. "But I wouldn't have said yes to any man standing inside that study. I said yes to you, and only you. You challenged me. You had new ideas. You treated me as if I was human."

She clung to him. "You treated me as though I were important, as if I actually had a say in the matter. Most men would take my father's word for me, but you wanted a yes from me. That in itself was testament to your character."

"I wouldn't say that," he whispered. "I wanted you to say yes yourself because I wouldn't have asked if I didn't need you to say yes. God, when you walked inside that room...I don't know what I was expecting, but you swept me off of my feet."

"You too," she chuckled. "I was expecting an ogre, some old man with bags of gold."

He kissed her again, kissing the laughter away. "Do you wish things had gone differently?" He wondered, kissing down her neck.

"I wonder," she admitted. "I wonder if we'd met at a party, and I think of all the ways you would have made my life intriguing and...scandalous. And I feel like we wasted time." She gazed at him. "Do you know how much I wanted you to just take me on our wedding night? Promise be damned."

"Do you know how much I wanted to?" He rumbled. "Dear god. But I would never treat you like that."

"You waited for me to ask," she whispered. "And the proud me of yesterday hated you for it, but I love you dearly for waiting. For not forcing me. For waiting til I was ready."

She kissed his lips, and he held her ever tighter.

"I wish I'd been able to do this five years ago, let alone five weeks ago," he said. "But I know it came about as it did for good reasons, and besides…" His fingers were playing with her breasts, making her legs tingle again. "We have our whole lives ahead of us to make up for it."

She was turning now, kissing him again, and they began again, their bodies coming together as one.

It didn't matter how long it had taken them to get to this point. They were there now, and they'd never fall out of love with each other.

James kissed his wife, knowing he'd love her forever, knowing that would never change, and Melinda kissed him back, rejoicing because he loved her and she loved him.

Not everyone got happy endings, and theirs was only just beginning…


End file.
